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KNIV.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 


THE  POST-GIRL 


THE  POST- GIRL 


BY 

EDWARD  C.  BOOTH 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1908 


Copyright,  1908,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 


Published.  June.  1908 


THE    DE  VINNE    PREM 


THE  POST-GIRL 


2125956 


THE  POST-GIRL 


CHAPTER  I 

WHEN  summer  comes  Mrs.  Gatheredge  talks  of 
repapering  her  parlor,  and  Ginger  gets  him  ready 
to  sleep  in  the  scullery  at  a  night's  notice,  but  the  letting 
of  lodgings  is  not  a  staple  industry  in  this  quarter  of  York- 
shire, and  folks  would  fare  ill  on  it  who  knew  nothing  of 
the  art  of  keeping  a  pig  or  growing  their  own  potatoes  in 
the  bit  of  garden  at  the  back. 

Visitors  pass  through,  indeed,  in  large  enough  numbers 
between  seed-  and  harvest-time  (mostly  by  bicycle),  star- 
ing their  way  round  the  village  from  house  to  house.  But 
all  that  ever  develops  is  an  occasional  request  for  a  cup 
of  water— in  the  hope,  no  doubt,  that  we  may  give  them 
milk — or  an  interrogation  as  to  the  road  to  somewhere 
else.  Steg's  reply  to  the  latter,  through  a  long  succession 
of  summers,  has  waxed  into  a  set  formula,  which  he  pre- 
pares with  all  the  exactness  of  a  prescription : 

"There  's  two  rawds  [roads]  tiv  it,"  he  says,  measuring 
out  his  words  carefully  against  the  light  of  inward  under- 
standing, like  tincture  in  a  chemist's  vial.  "A  right  un 


4  THE  POST-GIRL 

an'  a  wrong  un.  'Appen  ye  'd  as  lief  gan  right  un.  Wrong 
un  's  a  long  way  round." 

These  are  mere  migratory  birds  of  visit,  however — 
here  this  morning  and  gone  by  noon— leaving  little  trace 
of  their  passage  beyond  a  footmark  on  somebody's  door- 
step or  a  mustard-stained  sandwich-paper  blowing  drear- 
ily against  the  tombstones  in  the  churchyard.  Residential 
visitors  are  almost  unknown  to  Ullbrig.  One  or  two  petty 
tradesmen  bring  their  wives  and  families  from  Hun- 
mouth  for  cheap  sojourn  during  the  summer  months,  but 
they  are  more  residential  than  visitors,  recurring  each 
year  with  the  regularity  of  harvest,  and  blending  as  im- 
perceptibly with  Ullbrig  life  as  the  water  with  Jevons' 
milk.  They  have  become  to  all  intents  and  purposes  a 
part  of  us,  and  are  never  spoken  of  as  "visitors"— they 
are  merely  said  to  be  "wi'  us  again"  or  just  "coom  back." 
The  class  of  visitor  which  is  lacking  to  Ullbrig  is  the 
pleasure-seeking  variety  which  comes  for  a  month,  is 
charged  unprotesting  for  lights  and  fire,  never  lends  a 
hand  to  the  washing  of  its  own  pots,  and  pays  town  price 
for  country  butter.  Our  local  designation  for  such  guests 
— when  we  get  them — is  "spawers." 

The  word  is  apt  to  strike  chill  on  urban  understandings 
when  heard  for  the  first  time.  I  remember  when  Ginger 
sprang  it  upon  me  on  the  initial  occasion  of  my  hearing 
it,  I  was  filled  for  a  moment  with  an  indefinable  sense  of 
calamity. 

"Well,"  were  Ginger's  words,  greeting  me  and  leaving 
me  almost  in  a  breath.  "Ah  wish  ah  mud  stay  longer  wi' 
ye  noo,  but  ah  mun't.  We  've  gotten  spawers  i'  'oose 
[house]." 

I  shook  his  earth-worn  hand  with  that  degree  of  com- 


THE  POST-GIRL  5 

prehensive  warmth  which  should  suggest  sorrowing  sym- 
pathy to  a  mind  quickened  through  trouble,  but  nought 
beyond  fervor  to  the  ruder  tissues  of  health. 

"There  's  always  something  .  .  .  for  some  of  us  .  .  ." 
I  said  oracularly. 

"We  mud  as  well  'ev  'em  as  onnybody,"  Ginger  re- 
marked, with  what  I  took  to  be  rare  resignation  at  the 
time,  and  we  parted. 


IT  was  in  the  green,  early  days  of  July,  when  the  corn 
waved  slumberously  back  and  forth  over  the  hedge-tops, 
beating  time  to  soundless  adagios  like  a  sleepy-headed 
metronome,  and  as  yet  there  were  few  scorched  patches 
in  summer's  rippling  gown  of  emerald  silk,  that  the 
Spawer  arrived.  Steg  was  one  of  the  first  to  give  tidings 
of  his  advent  to  Ullbrig,  and  after  him  Mrs.  Grazer,  who 
met  him  on  his  way  home,  bearing  the  intelligence  labo- 
riously with  his  mouth  open,  like  a  brimming  pail  of  milk. 

"  'Ev  ye  'card  'ow  Mester  Jenkison'  mother'  sister-in- 
law  's  gettin'  on,  Steg?"  she  asked  him,  before  he  was 
ready  to  speak  first. 

"Ay,"  says  Steg,  with  a  watchful  eye  upon  his  own 
intelligence,  set  momentarily  down,  and  waiting  his  turn. 

"'Ow  is  she,  then?" 

"She  's  deead." 

"Nay !    Is  she  an'  all !    Poor  owd  woman !" 

"She  is  that!"  says  Steg,  warming  with  a  sense  of 
triumph  to  the  work,  as  though  he  had  the  credit  of  her 
demise.  It  is  good  to  be  the  bearer  of  tidings,  and  feel 
oneself  a  factor  in  the  world's  rotation.  "She  deed  ti  morn 
[this  morning]  at  aif-past  six." 


6  THE  POST- GIRL 

"An'  when  's  t'  buryin'?    Did  y'  'ear?" 

"Ay,  they  telt  me,"  says  Steg. 

"It  '11  be  o'  Thosday,  ah  's  think." 

"Nay,  bud  it  weean't,"  Steg  replied,  mounting  up  an- 
other step  by  contradiction  toward  the  top  rung  of  his 
ladder.  "Wensday.  There  's  ower  much  thunder  about 
for  keepin'."  Then  he  struck  up  still  higher  without 
loss  of  time.  "They  've  gotten  a  spawer  up  at  Gift,"  he 
said. 

The  intelligence  was  a  guest  at  every  tea-table  in  Ull- 
brig  the  same  day,  Steg  and  Mrs.  Grazer  having  done 
wonders  in  its  dissemination  under  wholesome  fear  of 
forestalment.  Mrs.  Grazer  beat  Steg  by  a  short  head  at 
Shep  Stevens',  but  Steg  cut  the  triumph  away  from  under 
her  feet  at  Gatheredge's.  To  all  intents  and  purposes  they 
ran  a  dead  heat  at  the  brewery,  only  Mrs.  Gatheredge's 
superior  riding  put  Steg's  nose  out  on  the  post. 

"Steg  '11  'a  telt  ye  they  've  gotten  a  spawer  up  at  Clift 
Yend,"  she  said,  with  diabolical  cunning,  just  as  Steg's 
mouth  was  opening  for  the  purpose,  snatching  the  prize 
from  his  very  lips. 

"Nay,  Steg  's  telt  us  nowt,"  repudiated  the  brewer. 
"Steg  's  nobbut  just  this  minute  walked  i'  yard.  Ev'  they 
an' all?  Up  at  Clift  Yend?" 

"  'E  come  o'  Monday,"  Steg  chimed  in  morosely,  pick- 
ing up  what  odd  crumbs  of  attention  were  left  him  from 
the  purloin. 

"O'  Monday,  did  'e?  There  's  nobbut  one  on  'em, 
then?"  said  the  brewer  interrogatively. 

"That  's  all,"  answered  Steg,  left  in  undisputed  posses- 
sion of  the  field  by  the  departure  of  Mrs.  Grazer  into  the 
internals  of  the  brewer's  house  by  the  back. 


THE  POST- GIRL  7 

"Ay.  ...  So  there  's  nobbut  one  on  'em,  then?  It  '11 
be  newspaper  man  fro'  Oommuth  [Hunmouth],  ah  's 
think — 'im  'at  was  'ere  last  back-end." 

"Nay,  bud  no,"  Steg  answered,  with  decision,  plucking 
up  brightly  at  the  sight  of  unspoliated  pickings.  "It  's  a 
right  new  un  this  time." 

"  'E  '11  be  fro'  Oommuth,  though,"  said  the  brewer, 
going  down  squarely  on  the  bilge  of  a  beer  barrel  after  a 
cautious  look  backward. 

"Nay,  an'  'e  's  not  fro'  Oommuth  naythur,"  said  Steg, 
with  zest. 

"Why!  Where  is  'e  fro',  then?"  asked  the  brewer,  in 
genuine  surprise.  Visitors  to  Ullbrig  who  don't  come 
from  Hunmouth  can  hardly  be  conceived  to  come  from 
anywhere.  We  divide  the  world  into  two  constituents, 
town  and  country,  Hunmouth  being  the  town. 

"Ah  nivver  thought  to  ask,"  said  Steg,  after  a  thinking 
pause ;  "bud  'e  's  not  fro'  Oommuth.  .  .  .  Ah  'm  none  so 
sure,"  he  added,  straining  the  chords  of  his  actual  intelli- 
gence for  the  sake  of  a  little  extra  effect,  "  't  'e  's  not  fro' 
Lunnon !" 

"Ah  think  not,  Steg,"  said  the  brewer  quickly,  rejecting 
the  probability  without  consideration,  like  the  blind  man's 
box  of  matches  pushed  under  his  nose  in  Hunmouth. 

"Ah  think  not,"  the  brewer  repeated.  "Lunnon  's  a 
long  way  off  'n  Gift  Yend." 

"Ay,  but  ah  'm  none  so  sure,  ah  tell  ye,"  Steg  urged, 
real  conviction  growing  in  him  out  of  contradiction,  as  is 
the  way  of  all  flesh.  "  'E  's  lived  a  deal  i'  furrin  parts, 
onny'ow,"  he  said  craftily,  making  a  counter  demonstra- 
tion to  relieve  pressure  on  the  main  issue,  and  retiring 
under  its  cover  from  the  assailed  position. 


8  THE  POST- GIRL 

"Which  on  'em?"  inquired  the  brewer,  with  disconcert- 
ing directness. 

"T'  most  part  on  'em,  ah  think,"  Steg  replied,  boldly. 

"France,  'as  fe?"  asked  the  brewer,  testing  this  broad 
statement  of  fact  by  the  application  of  specifics. 

"Ay,"  said  Steg,  with  a  big  bold  affirmative  like  the 
head  of  a  tadpole,  thinning  out  all  suddenly  into  a  faint 
wriggling  tail  of  protective  caution— "ah  think  so." 

"Jarmany?"  asked  the  brewer. 

"Ay,"  said  Steg  again,  "...  ah  think  so." 

"Roo-shah?"  the  brewer  went  on  judicially,  suddenly 
of  a  mind  to  turn  this  interrogation  into  a  geographical 
display,  but  with  a  keen  eye  for  the  limits  of  his  territory. 

"Ay,"  repeated  Steg,  gathering  such  momentum  of  as- 
sent that  he  had  buried  his  reply  in  the  brewer's  second 
syllable  before  he  could  stop  himself,  with  his  tail  stick- 
ing out  by  the  interrogation  mark — "ah  think  so." 

"Hitaly?"  queried  the  brewer,  pausing  through  a  futile 
endeavor  to  pronounce  whether  America  was  a  foreign 
part  or  not.  "Choina?  Hindia?" 

"Nay,"  Steg  demurred,  with  wily  scruple,  "ah  'm  none 
so  sure  about  t'  last." 

"  'E  's  traviled  a  deal,  'owseumdiwer,"  said  the  brewer. 
"What  's  brought  'im  to  Clift  Vend,  ah  wonder  ...  of 
all  places  i'  world.  'E  's  not  for  company,  it  seems,  bi  t' 
looks  o'  things.  Did  y'  'ear  owt  why  'e  's  come?" 

"Naw,"  said  Steg.  "They  say  'e  writes  a  deal  of  'is 
time." 

"  'Appen  'e  writes  for  t'  paper,"  the  brewer  suggested. 

"Nay,  ah  div  n't  think  that  's  it,"  Steg  said,  taking  the 
brewer's  conclusion  into  his  own  hands  like  an  ill-sharp- 
ened pencil  and  repointing  it.  "  'E  's  nowt  to  do  wi'  pa- 


THE  POST- GIRL  9 

pers,  by  what  ah  can  mek  oot.  'E  's  ta'en  rooms  for  a 
month  at  start,  wi'  chance  o'  stoppin'  on  if  'e  likes  'em,  an' 
'e  's  brought  a  hextry  deal  o'  things  wi'  'im.  'E  's  brought 
a  bath.  .  .  ." 

"A  bath !"  said  the  brewer  blankly,  interrogation  and 
interjection  in  visible  conflict  over  the  word.  Complete 
house  furnishing  in  Ullbrig  stops  at  the  wash-tub.  Beyond 
this  all  is  vanity.  "What  diz  'e  want  wi'  a  bath  ?" 

"Nay  .  .  ."  Steg  said,  declining  any  conflict  on  the  un- 
accountabilities  of  strange  men  from  far  places.  "Ah  'm 
nobbut  tellin'  ye  same  as  they  've  telt  me,"  he  added  half- 
apologetically,  in  fear  lest  he  might  be  accused  of  sym- 
pathies with  false  worship.  "It  's  a  rare  great  bath  an' 
all,  by  what  they  say — like  one  o'  them  big  drums  wi'  a 
cover  tiv  it.  Ye  've  nobbut  to  gie  it  a  ding  wi'  yer  'and 
an'  it  sets  up  a  growl  same  as  thunder.  Onny  road, 
that  's  what  Jeff  Dixon  says,  an'  'e  ought  to  know.  'E 
wor  dingin'  it  all  last  neet." 

"Some  folks  'as  fancies,"  said  the  brewer,  with  imper- 
sonal scorn. 

"Ay  ...  an'  ah  was  nigh  forgettin'  .  .  ."  Steg  struck 
in.  "  'E  's  gotten  a  'armonium  comin'  an'  all.  It  '11  ought 
to  be  'ere  before  so  very  long,  noo." 

"A  'armonium !"  exclaimed  the  brewer,  trying  the  word 
incredulously  upon  his  understanding.  "Nay,"  he  said, 
after  testing  it  with  his  own  lips,  "nay,  ah  think  ye  're 
wrong  this  time,  Steg." 

"A  planner,  then,"  Steg  hazarded,  after  staring  fixedly 
for  a  space  with  a  wrestle  going  on  laboriously  behind  his 
eyes.  "It 's  all  same  thing  i'  yend." 

"Nay,  nor  a  planner  naythur,"  ruled  the  brewer,  refus- 
ing the  substitute  with  equal  disregard.  "Folks  dizz  n't 


io  THE  POST-GIRL 

tek  'armoniums  nor  planners  about  wi'  'em  fro'  place  to 
place  i'  that  road.  It  '11  be  a  concerteeny  ye  're  thinkin1 
on,  'appen." 

"Nay,  it  weean't,"  Steg  said  slowly. 

"What  '11  it  be,  then?" 

"It  '11  be  a  pianner,"  he  said,  carrying  the  contention 
relentlessly  in  his  mouth  as  a  dog  does  a  bone,  and,  see- 
ing that,  the  brewer  did  not  risk  wresting  it  from  him  by 
force. 

"  'Oo  says  it  will?"  he  inquired,  temporising  warily 
after  this  convincing  display  of  faith. 

"I  do,"  said  Steg,  toll-gathering  masterfully  for  him- 
self. 

"Ay,  bud  'oo  telt  you  ?"  demanded  the  brewer. 

"Gyles'  lad,"  said  Steg. 

"An'  'oo  telt  'im?"  the  brewer  continued,  pursuing  the 
inflexible  interrogative  path  to  fundamentals. 

"Arny." 

"Arny  Dixon?" 

"Ay,  'e  did." 

"Arny  Dixon  'issen?" 

"Ay,  Arny  Dixon  'issen.    There  's  not  two  of  'em." 

"Arny  Dixon  telt  Gyles'  lad  and  Gyles'  lad  telt  you,  ye 
say?" 

"Ay,  ah  do,"  said  Steg,  with  a  voice  that  cried  for  no 
abatement  of  its  responsibility. 

The  brewer  gave  one  thigh  a  moment's  respite  off  the 
hard  cask,  and  after  that  the  other. 

"Well!"  he  said,  sententiously.  "There  '11  be  time 
enough  an'  all,  Steg.  Them  'at  lives  longest  sees  most, 
they  say." 

"Ay!"  Steg  assented,  with  equanimity. 


THE  POST- GIRL  n 

A  shadow  fell  across  the  brewer's  yard;  an  irresolute, 
halting  shadow— the  shadow  of  one  with  half  a  mission 
and  two  minds. 

"  'Neet,  James,"  greeted  the  brewer  to  the  yard-end, 
and  the  shadow  deepened,  falling  finally  over  an  adjacent 
beer  barrel  with  a  couple  of  nods  and  an  expectoration. 

"We  've  gotten  company  up  at  Clift  Yend,  then,"  it 
said. 


CHAPTER  II 

WHERE  the  roadway  splits  on  the  trim,  green  prow 
of  Hesketh's  high  garden-hedge,  dipping  down  like 
the  trough  of  a  wave  and  sliding  along  the  cool,  moss- 
grown  wall  beneath  a  tangle  of  leafy  rigging  towards  the 
sunlit  opens  of  Cliff  Wrangham,  Father  Mostyn,  deep 
in  his  own  thoughts,  came  suddenly  upon  the  Spawer, 
going  homeward. 

He  was  a  tall,  lithe  figure  of  young  manhood,  in 
snowy  holland,  with  the  idle  bearing  of  one  whose 
activity  is  all  in  the  upper  story;  eyes  brown,  stead- 
fast, and  kindly,  less  for  the  faculty  of  seeing  things 
than  of  thinking  them;  brows  lying  at  ease  apart,  but 
with  the  tiny,  tell-tale  couple-crease  between  them  for 
linked  tussle— brows  that  might  hitch  on  to  thought  with 
the  tenacity  of  a  steel  hawser ;  a  jaw  fine,  firm,  and  res- 
olute, closing  strongly  over  determination,  though  void  of 
the  vicious  set  of  obstinacy,  with  a  little  indulgent,  smil- 
ing, V-shaped  cleft  in  the  chin  for  a  mendicant  to  take 
advantage  of;  lips  seemingly  consecrate  to  the  sober 
things  of  this  life,  yet  showing  too  a  sunny  corner  for  its 
mirthmakings  and  laughters  beneath  the  slight  slant  of 
moustache— scarcely  more  tawny  than  its  owner's  sun- 
tanned cheeks  where  it  touched  them.  Father  Mostyn 
awoke  suddenly  from  his  musing  to  the  awareness  of  a 
strange  presence,  encompassing  it  with  the  meshes  of  an 
inquiring  eye.  Before  the  Spawer  could  extricate  his 


THE  POST-GIRL  13 

glance  from  the  toils  of  its  inadvertent  trespass,  the  dread 
"Ha!"  had  completed  his  enslavement  and  brought  him 
up  on  his  heel  sideways  at  the  moment  of  passing. 

"...  A  stranger  within  our  gates!"  Father  Mostyn 
observed,  with  courteous  surprise,  rocking  ruminatively 
to  and  fro  on  his  legs  in  the  roadway,  and  dangling  the 
ebony  staff  in  both  palms.  He  drew  a  comprehensive 
circle  with  its  ferrule  in  the  blue  sky.  "You  bring  glo- 
rious weather,"  he  said,  contemplating  the  demarcated 
area  through  rapt,  narrowed  lashes,  and  sensing  its  bene- 
ficence with  the  uplifted  nostrils  of  zest. 

The  Spawer  unlocked  his  lips  to  a  frank,  boyish  smile 
that  lighted  up  his  face  in  quick  response  like  the  throwing 
open  of  shutters  to  the  sunlight.  Also,  just  a  little  emana- 
tive  twinkle  that  seemed  to  suggest  previous  acquaint- 
ance with  the  Vicar  over  some  Cliff  Wrangham  rail. 

"To  be  truthful,"  he  laughed,  "it  's  the  weather  that 
brings  me.  One  feels  it  almost  a  sin,  somehow,  to  let  such 
a  sun  and  sky  go  unenjoyed.  The  rain  always  comes  soon 
enough." 

"Not  till  we  've  prayed  for  it,"  Father  Mostyn  decided 
with  prompt  reassurance,  making  critical  diagnosis  of 
the  sky  above.  "...  Prayed  for  it  properly,"  he  has- 
tened to  explain.  "Indiscriminate  Ullbrig  exhortation 
won't  do  any  good — with  a  sky  like  that.  You  can't  mis- 
take it.  The  meteorological  conditions  point  to  prolonged 
set  fair."  He  dismissed  the  weather  with  a  sudden  expul- 
sion of  glance,  and  put  on  his  atmospheric  courtesy  of 
manner  for  personal  approaches.  "...  A  pilgrim  to  the 
old  heathen  centre  of  Ullbrig?"  he  inquired,  diffusing  the 
direct  interrogation  over  the  Spawer 's  holland  trousers. 
"Brig,  the  Bridge,  and  Ull,  or  Uddle,  the  Idol— the  Vil- 


14  THE  POST-GIRL 

lage  of  Idols  on  the  Bridge.  The  bridge  and  the  idols  have 
departed  .  .  .  the  church  is  partly  built  of  stones  from 
infidel  altars  .  .  .  but  the  heathen  remain.  Large  num- 
bers of  them.  Do  you  come  to  study  our  aboriginal  habits 
and  superstitions?  ...  A  student  of  Nature  at  all?" 

The  Spawer  exchanged  a  happy  negative. 

"Hardly  a  student,"  he  said,  rejecting  the  title  with 
pleasant  demur.  "I  'm  afraid  I  can't  lay  claim  to  that.  A 
lover,  perhaps,"  he  substituted.  "That  leaves  ignorance 
free  scope.  Love  is  not  among  the  learned  profes- 
sions." 

"Ha !"  Father  Mostyn  commented,  considering  the  re- 
flection, like  the  scent  of  a  cigar,  through  critical  nostrils. 
"A  lover  of  Nature ;  with  a  leaning  towards  philosophy. 
You  come  far  to  do  your  love-making  ?" 

"Fairly  far — yes.  I  am  fond  of  the  country,"  the 
Spawer  explained,  with  simple  confession  of  fact,  "and 
the  sea." 

"We  have  not  much  country  to  offer  you  hereabouts,  I 
fear,"  Father  Mostyn  said,  looking  deprecatingly  round  it. 
"We  have  land."  He  leaned  interrogatively  on  the  prof- 
fered alternative.  "If  that  's  any  good  to  you.  A  fine, 
heavy,  obstinate  clay  like  the  rest  of  us.  We  are  sweaters 
of  the  brow  in  these  parts.  We  find  it  an  excellent  substi- 
tute for  soap.  All  our  life  is  given  over  to  the  land.  We 
are  born  on  it,  brought  up  on  it,  buried  in  it.  We  worship 
it.  It  is  the  only  god  we  bow  to.  Notice  the  back  of  an 
Ullbrig  man ;  it  is  bent  with  devotion  to  the  soil.  We 
don't  bend  like  that  in  church.  To  bend  like  that  in 
church  is  idolatry.  So  we  go  to  chapel  and  unbend  in- 
stead, and  hold  mighty  tea-meetings  in  honor  of  Jehovah. 
Notice  our  eyes  too ;  take  stock  of  them  when  we  give  you 


THE  POST-GIRL  15 

'Good  day'  in  the  road.  There  is  a  peculiar,  foxy,  nar- 
row-grooved slant  in  them  through  incessant  following  of 
the  furrow.  You  can't  mistake  it.  You  don't  need  any 
pretensions  to  metoposcopy  to  read  our  faces.  We  are  of 
the  earth,  earthy.  When  we  turn  our  eyes  towards 
Heaven,  we  are  merely  looking  for  rain.  If  we  turn  them 
up  again,  we  are  merely  looking  for  the  rain  to  stop.  Our 
lives  are  elemental  and  our  pleasures  few.  To  speak  ill  of 
one's  neighbor,  to  slander  the  vicar,  to  deride  the  church, 
to  perpetuate  heresy,  to  pasture  untruths — spar g ere  voces 
in  vulgutn  ambiguas — to  fly  off  at  a  tangent  on  strong 
beer — these  are  among  our  catalogue  of  homely  recrea- 
tions. 

"If  you  were  staying  here  to  study  us  for  any  length  of 
time — but  I  suppose  you  are  the  mere  sojourner  of  a  day, 
gone  from  us  again  in  the  cool  of  the  evening  with  the 
night-moths  and  other  flitting  things  ?" 

The  Spawer  laughed  lightly. 

"Not  quite  so  soon  as  that,"  he  said.  "And  you  make 
me  glad  of  it.  No ;  I  am  pitching  my  tent  in  this  pleasant 
wilderness  awhile." 

Father  Mostyn  opened  his  roomy  eye  to  the  reception 
of  surprise. 

"Ha!  Is  it  possible?  Within  measurable  distance  of 
us?" 

"At  Cliff  Wrangham." 

"Cliff  Wrangham!"  The  ecclesiastical  eyebrows  ele- 
vated themselves  up  out  of  sight  under  Father  Mostyn's 
cap-rim.  "So  near  and  yet  so  far!  Friends?"  he  added, 
as  the  eyebrows  came  down,  casting  over  the  word  a 
delicate  interrogative  haze. 

The  Spawer  cleaved  its  meaning. 


16  THE  POST-GIRL 

"I  am  making  them,"  he  said.  "At  present  I  am  merely 
a  lodger." 

"Merely  a  lodger,"  Father  Mostyn  repeated,  using  the 
words  to  nod  over,  as  was  his  wont.  "And  Mrs.  Dixon, 
I  suppose,  is  our  landlady  ?  Ha !  I  thought  so.  She  has 
the  monopoly  hereabouts.  A  tower  of  nonconformity  in 
a  district  pillared  with  dissent — but  a  skilled  cook.  A 
cook  for  an  abbot's  board.  Only  describe  what  a  dish 
smells  like  and  she  will  come  within  reasonable  approach 
of  its  taste  on  the  table.  You  won't  have  much  fault  to 
find  with  the  meals — I  've  tried  'em.  Her  chicken-pies 
are  a  specialty.  There  's  not  a  single  crumb  of  vice  in  the 
whole  crust,  and  the  gravy  glues  your  lips  together  with 
goodness.  The  pity  is  they  are  not  even  Protestant  pies, 
and  are  impiously  partaken  of  on  Fridays  and  other  holy 
fast  days.  You  need  never  fear  for  a  dinner.  All  you 
have  to  do  is  to  go  out  into  the  yard  and  point  your  finger 
at  it.  We  possess  an  agreeable  knack  of  spiriting  poultry 
under  the  crust  hereabouts  without  unnecessary  formula. 
It  is  inherited.  Beef  will  give  you  trouble,  and  mutton ; 
both  in  the  buying  and  the  masticating.  We  kill  once  a 
week.  Killing  day  falls  the  day  after  you  want  steak  in  a 
hurry— or  has  fallen  some  days  before.  That  is  because  we 
sell  first  and  slaughter  second.  Our  Ullbrig  butchers  leave 
nothing  to  chance.  They  keep  a  beast  ready  in  the  stall, 
and  as  soon  as-  the  last  steak  's  sold  by  allotment,  they 
sign  the  execution  warrant.  Not  before,  unless  the  beast 
falls  ill.  In  the  matter  of  fish  we  are  better  off.  We 
don't  go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships  for  it— we  should  come 
back  without  it  if  we  did.  We  get  it  at  Fussitter's.  Ready 
tinned." 

"Ready  tinned!"  said  the  Spawer.     "It  sounds  rather 


THE  POST-GIRL  17 

deadly,  does  n't  it  ?  It  puts  me  in  mind  of  inquests,  some- 
how." 

"Ha!"  Father  Mostyn  made  haste  to  explain.  "You 
must  n't  buy  it  out  of  the  window.  That  's  where  the 
deadliness  comes  in.  The  sunlight  has  a  peculiar  chemical 
action  upon  the  tin,  liberating  certain  constituents  of  the 
metal  exceedingly  perilous  to  the  intercostal  linings.  In- 
sist on  having  it  from  under  the  counter.  Ask  for  tinned 
lobster — as  supplied  to  his  reverence  the  vicar.  .  .  ."  He 
wrote  out  the  instructions  with  his  right  forefinger  upon 
the  left-hand  palm.  "To  be  kept  in  a  Cool,  Dark  Place 
under  the  Counter.  The  crayfish  brand.  Nothing  but  the 
crayfish  brand.  Ask  for  the  vicar's  lobster — they  '11  know 
what  you  mean — and  see  that  you  get  it." 

"Would  n't  one  of  Mrs.  Dixon's  pies  come  in  rather 
handy  there,  even  on  Friday  ?"  the  Spawer  suggested. 

"Ha!"  said  Father  Mostyn,  with  a  luminous  eye.  "I 
see  you  realize  the  danger  of  them.  The  sin  that  comes 
in  handy.  That  's  it!  That  we  may  have  strength  of 
grace  to  turn  away  from  the  sin  that  comes  in  handy! 
.  .  .  Your  tent  has  been  pitched  in  the  wilderness  be- 
fore?" 

"Many  times." 

Father  Mostyn  made  expressive  comment  with  his  eye- 
brows. 

"Ha!  I  thought  so.  A  misanthrope?"  he  asked,  in 
genial  unbelief.  "Shunning  company  for  solitude !" 

"On  the  contrary,  I  find  solitude  excellent  company  at 
times." 

"A  literary  man  ?" 

"No."  The  Spawer  parted  pleasantly  with  the  word, 
unattached  to  any  further  token  of  enlightenment. 


18  THE  POST-GIRL 

"A  visitor  at  large,  I  suppose !"  Father  Mostyn  substi- 
tuted, holding  the  conclusion  under  his  nose  with  the 
delicate  non-insistence  of  a  collecting  plate  in  church. 
"Here  for  rest  and  quiet." 

The  Spawer  shook  his  head. 

"Again  no,"  he  answered.  "Rest  and  quiet  are  for  the 
wealthy."  Then  he  laughed  himself  free  of  further  dis- 
simulation. "I  will  be  frank  with  you,"  he  said.  "I  am 
none  of  these  things.  I  am  a  poor  beggar  in  the  musical 
line." 

Father  Mostyn's  eyebrows  arched. 

"The  musical  line!"  he  exclaimed.  "The  musical  line 
drawn  through  Ullbrig !  Geography  upheaved !  Mercator 
confounded !  One  might  just  as  well  expect  the  equator. 
And  yet  ...  I  felt  convinced  ...  a  disciple  of  art.  You 
can't  mistake  it.  But  in  Ullbrig.  Is  it  possible  ?" 

He  wagged  the  staff  in  his  hands  to  appreciative  won- 
der, waltzing  back  and  forth  over  three  paces  as  though 
he  were  performing  the  first  steps  of  a  minuet. 

"A  singer?"  he  said,  with  a  beaming  eye  of  discovery. 
"Surely.  .  .  .  You  have  the  singer's  eyes." 

"Alas!"  said  the  Spawer.  "I  have  not  the  singer's 
voice." 

The  gaze  of  the  Vicar  went  suddenly  thin. 

"But  the  eyes !"  he  said ;  and  then,  with  a  quick  read- 
justment of  vision  :  "At  least  .  .  .  there  can  be  no  doubt. 
.  .  .  An  executant?  You  play?" 

The  Spawer  sighed. 

"Yes,"  he  admitted,  with  smiling  resignation.  "I  sup- 
pose I  play." 

"The  piano,  of  course?"  Father  Mostyn  conjectured, 
taking  assent  for  granted.  "Ha!  .  .  ."  His  face  melted 


THE  POST- GIRL  19 

in  smiles,  like  golden  butter,  to  rapt  appreciation  at  the 
vista  of  glorious  possibilities  that  the  instrument  con- 
jured up  before  him.  He  lingered  over  the  contempla- 
tion down  a  long-drawn,  eloquent  "M-m-m-m,"  gazing 
out  upon  the  infinite  plains  of  melody  with  a  brightened 
eye.  "You  are  not  relying  on  our  aboriginal  stone  age 
pianos,  of  course,"  he  said,  recalling  his  eye  to  the  actual, 
with  a  sudden  recollective  jerk. 

The  Spawer  showed  a  sunny  glint  of  teeth. 

"Hardly,"  he  replied.  "As  soon  as  the  railway  people 
remember  where  they  saw  it  last,  I  hope  to  have  one  of 
my  own." 

"One  of  your  own.  Ha!"  Father  Mostyn's  eye  glis- 
tened to  enthusiasm  again.  "I  judged  so.  Beautiful! 
Beautiful !"  The  ebony  staff  shook  to  internal  humor  at 
a  thought.  "Fancy  Mozart  on  an  Ullbrig  piano !  ...  or 
Bach !  ...  or  Beethoven !  .  .  ."  He  wagged  the  un- 
speakable with  his  head.  "I  'm  afraid  you  won't  find  any 
music  hereabouts." 

"Thank  Heaven!"  the  Spawer  breathed  devoutly.  "I 
was  afraid  perhaps  I  might !" 

"Ha !"  Father  Mostyn  caught  quickly  at  the  inference 
and  translated  it.  "I  see;  I  see.  A  musical  monastic! 
Coming  into  retreat  at  Cliff  Wrangham  to  subject  his 
soul  to  a  course  of  artistic  purification  and  strengthen- 
ing!" 

The  Spawer  accepted  the  illustration  with  a  modest 
laugh. 

"Well,  yes,"  he  said.  "I  suppose  that  's  it — only  it  's 
rather  more  beautiful  in  idea  than  in  actuality.  I  should 
have  said  myself,  perhaps,  that  I  'd  come  into  the  coun- 
try to  be  able  to  work  in  shirt-sleeves  and  loosened 


20  THE  POST-GIRL 

braces,  and  go  about  unshaved,  in  baggy-kneed  trousers, 
without  fear  of  friends.  I  'm  half  a  monastic  and  half 
refugee.  In  towns  so  many  of  us  are  making  music  that 
one  never  gets  a  chance  to  hear  or  think  one's  own ;  one's 
ears  are  full  of  other  people's.  So  I  Ve  run  away  with 
my  own  little  musical  bone  to  a  quiet  place,  where  I  can 
tackle  it  all  to  myself  and  growl  over  the  business  to  my 
heart's  content  without  any  temptation  to  drop  it  for  un- 
substantial shadows.  Instead  of  having  to  work  in  a 
stuffy  room,  with  all  the  doors  and  windows  closed  and 
somebody  knocking  at  you  on  the  next  house  wall,  I  have 
the  sea,  the  cliff,  the  sands  .  .  .  and  the  whole  sky  above 
me  for  my  workshop.  It  will  take  me  all  my  time  to  fill 
it.  If  a  melody  comes  my  way,  I  can  hum  it  into  shape 
without  causing  unpleasant  remarks.  Nobody  ever  hears 
me,  for  one  thing ;  and  for  another,  they  would  n't  bother 
to  listen  if  they  did."  Father  Mostyn's  glance  flickered 
imperceptibly  for  a  moment,  and  then  burned  with  an 
exceeding  steady  light.  "I  can  orchestrate  aloud  in  the 
open  air,  singing  flute,  clarinet,  oboe,  bassoon,  ophicleide 
.  .  .  tympani  .  .  .  just  whatever  I  please,  without  any 
risk  of  an  official  tap  on  the  shoulder.  In  a  word,  I  can  be 
myself  .  .  .  and  it  's  a  treat  to  be  oneself  for  a  while. 
One  gets  tired  of  being  somebody  else  so  long,  and  hav- 
ing to  go  about  in  fear  of  the  great  Unwritten." 

"We  have  our  great  Unwritten  here  too,"  Father  Mos- 
tyn  told  him.  "I  doubt  if  any  of  us  could  write  it  if  we 
tried.  Ullbrig  is  weak  in  its  caligraphy.  We  do  most  of 
our  writing  in  chalk.  It  suits  our  style  better.  The  pen 
has  an  awkward  habit  of  impaling  the  paper,  we  find,  and 
carrying  it  back  to  the  ink-pot." 

"Don't    teach    me    anything    of    Ullbrig's    great    Un- 


THE  POST- GIRL  21 

written,"  the  Spawer  put  in  quickly.  "Let  me  violate  it 
with  an  easy  conscience." 

"By  all  means,"  Father  Mostyn  invited  him  genially. 
"It  will  be  a  chastening  mortification  to  our  pride.  We 
are  swollen  with  local  pride — distended  with  the  flatulence 
of  dissent.  A  little  pricking  will  do  us  no  harm.  I  should 
have  thought,  though,"  Father  Mostyn  went  on,  "that  you 
would  have  sought  to  feed  your  muse  on  richer  fare  than 
turnip-fields.  I  imagined  that  mountains  and  valleys, 
with  castles  looking  over  lakes  and  waterfalls  by  moon- 
light, were  more  the  sort  of  stuff  for  stimulating  a  musi- 
cian's fancy.  Is  it  possible  there  can  be  music  lying  latent 
in  our  Ullbrig  soil  ?" 

The  Spawer  smiled  a  sympathetic  appreciation  of  his 
perplexity. 

"I  think  there  may  be,"  he  told  him.  "Anyhow,  I  have 
come  to  make  the  experiment,  and  I  'm  very  well  satisfied 
with  it  so  far." 

"Heaven  be  with  you,"  Father  Mostyn  prayed  with 
fervor.  "It  passes  the  mind  of  man  to  imagine  the  con" 
version  of  friend  Joseph  Tankard  into  a  symphony,  of 
friend  Sheppardman  Stevens  as  a  figure  in  a  sonata.  Yotl 
have  your  labor." 

"I  am  not  dismayed,"  the  Spawer  laughed,  with  light- 
hearted  confidence. 

"And  you  are  staying  here  for  any  length  of  time — a 
month,  at  least,  to  start  with  ?  .  .  .  I  would  suggest  three, 
if  you  wish  to  study  the  district." 

"It  might  very  well  be  three  before  I  leave;  certainly 
not  less  than  a  month." 

"Excellent !  Your  soul  is  my  cure  while  you  stay.  It 
will  be  my  duty  as  parish  priest  to  pay  you  parochial  vis- 


22  THE  POST-GIRL 

its.  I  hope,  too,  that  it  will  be  my  privilege  to  receive  your 
full  musical  confession.  And  as  soon  as  ever  you  grow 
tired  of  the  company  of  solitude  up  at  the  Cliff  End,  just 
drop  down  to  Ullbrig  and  try  me  for  an  antidote,  any 
time  you  happen  to  be  passing.  If  you  're  tired,  or  want 
something  to  drink,  don't  hesitate  to  make  use  of  the 
parish  priest.  That  's  what  he  's  for.  Just  call  in  at  the 
Vicarage  as  you  would  at  the  Ullbrig  Arms;  you  '11  find 
the  attention  as  good,  and  the  welcome  greater.  After 
eight  o'clock  you  can  be  almost  sure  of  catching  me  ... 
without  there  be  sick  calls.  A  pain  in  the  umbilical  vicin- 
ity is  an  excellent  worker  for  the  Church.  Unfortunately, 
it  passes  off  too  soon,  and  then  we  are  apt  to  forget  that 
we  called  the  vicar  out  of  bed  in  a  hurry  one  morn- 
ing. .  .  ."  The  first  stroke  of  three  fell  across  his  words 
from  the  church  tower  round  the  corner,  and  on  the  in- 
stant his  genial  eye  was  wreathed  in  priestly  mysticism  as 
with  the  spirals  of  incense.  The  mantle  of  a  mighty  mis- 
sion descended  upon  him,  and  he  gathered  its  folds  in 
dignity  about  his  being.  "Ha !"  he  said,  grasping  his  staff 
for  departure,  and  verifying  the  time  from  a  handsome 
gold  chronometer,  "...  I  must  leave  you.  They  're 
waiting.  .  .  .  Priestly  duties.  .  .  ." 

He  did  not  specify  who  were  waiting  or  what  the 
priestly  duties  were,  but  exhaled  the  spirit  of  leave-taking 
in  an  ineffable  smile  without  words,  and  vanished  round 
Hesketh's  corner — a  vague,  ecclesiastical  vapor.  A  few 
moments  later,  by  the  time  his  Reverence  could  have  com- 
fortably reached  the  belfry,  the  creaking  of  a  bell-rope 
overtook  the  Spawer  on  his  way  homeward,  and  the 
tongue  of  the  stagnant  hour-teller  roused  itself  once  more 
in  public  reproof  of  schism. 


THE  POST- GIRL  23 

A  MILE  and  a  half  of  roadway  lies  between  Ullbrig  and 
Cliff  Wrangham.  As  near  as  may  be  it  stretches  straight 
to  the  halfway  house,  like  a  yard  of  yellow  ribbon  meas- 
ured against  the  rod.  From  there  the  rest  of  it  rolls  away 
to  the  Cliff  End  in  sweeping  fold  of  disengaged  material 
and  the  gateways  set  in.  There  are  four  of  these,  with  a 
music  all  their  own  as  they  clash  behind  you,  wagging 
their  loose,  worn,  wooden  tongues,  that  sometimes  catch 
and  are  still  with  one  short  note,  and  sometimes  reiterate 
themselves  slowingly  to  sleep  upon  the  gate-post  behind 
you  as  you  go.  The  first  lets  you  by  Stamway's  long 
one-story  farm-house,  before  Stamway's  three  front 
windows,  hermetically  sealed,  each  darkened  with  a 
fuchsia  and  backed  with  white  curtains  drawn  as 
tight  as  a  drumhead,  and  Stamway's  front  door,  an 
arm's  length  behind  the  wooden  palisading,  that  Stam- 
way  has  never  gone  in  or  come  out  by  since  he  happened 
through  with  some  of  the  parlor  furniture  thirty  years 
ago — our  front  door,  as  Father  Mostyn  himself  tells 
us,  being  no  better  than  the  church  door  for  all  the 
use  we  make  of  it.  Beyond  Stamway's  third  window 
is  Stamway's  big  semi-circular  duck-pond,  where  Bar- 
clay of  Far  Wrangham  suffered  shipwreck  one  night  in 
November,  being  found  water-logged  up  to  his  knees,  and 
crying  aloud  (as  it  is  attested)  : 

"Lord  'ev  mercy  on  me  an'  gie  me  strength  ti  keep  my 
legs  while  tide  gans  down."  Adding  when  rescued :  "Ah 
nivver  knowed  sea  so  'igh  i'  all  my  days,  nor  rise  so  sud- 
den. She  mun  'a  done  a  deal  o'  damage,  Stamway.  If 
ah  'ad  n't  been  strongish  o'  my  feet,  like,  ah  sewd  'a  been 
swep  away,  for  sure." 

"Nay,"  Stamway  told  him  bluntly,  who  does  not  hold 


24  THE  POST-GIRL 

with  dissipations  in  any  shape  or  form,  being  a  strict  Good 
Templar  himself,  and  never  known  the  worse  for  liquor 
more  than  six  times  in  the  year.  "It  's  Red  Sea  i'side  of 
ye,  ah  think,  'at  's  most  to  blame.  It  's  drowned  a  deal 
o'  Phaarahs  in  its  time.  Gan  yer  ways  'ome  wi'  ye,  an' 
div  n't  say  nowt  about  matter  ti  onnybody.  They  '11  know 
very  well  wi'oot." 

The  second  gate  gives  you  your  first  foot  on  Dixon's 
land.  The  house  stands  endwise  to  the  sea,  set  deep  in  a 
horseshoe  of  trees;  a  big,  hearty,  whitewashed  building 
under  bronze  red  tiles,  two  stories  high  in  front,  that  slope 
down  backward  over  the  dairy  toward  the  stackgarth  till 
they  touch  its  high  nettles.  If  you  are  approaching  it  with 
heelless  boots  and  an  apologetic  tread,  beware  of  the  dog. 
The  door  opens  under  the  low  scullery  roof,  with  the  sink 
to  your  right  hand  as  you  go  in,  where  the  whole  family 
takes  turns  at  the  papier-mache  basin  before  tea.  To  the 
left  of  the  scullery  lies  the  kitchen.  You  go  in  as  you  go 
in  at  Stamway's :  scrape  your  boots  over  a  spade,  knock 
both  heels  alternately  against  the  outer  wall,  skate  in- 
wards over  two  mats,  and  give  a  twist  sideways,  watch- 
ing the  kitchen  floor  anxiously  the  while  to  see  whether 
the  mats  have  done  their  work  or  will  betray  you. 

The  kitchen  takes  up  the  whole  end  of  the  house,  facing 
two  ways.  The  first  window  watches  the  lane  across  the 
red  tile  path  and  the  little  unclassified  garden ;  the  second 
comes  on  the  broadside  front  of  the  house,  facing  south, 
where  the  sun  is  a  gorgeous  nuisance  after  mid-morning 
in  summer,  fading  all  the  flowers  on  the  figured  print 
blind  drawn  down  against  his  intrusion.  It  is  one  of  six 
that  look  out  upon  the  little  green  lawn  of  ragged  grass, 


THE  POST-GIRL  25 

where  invisible  hens  are  desperately  busy  under  its  long 
blades  all  day  long,  and  chase  the  moths  with  vehement 
beaks  above  the  tangle  at  even.  A  rude  rail  fence  bounds 
it  in  front,  that  gives  way  at  times  when  you  dangle  both 
legs  on  it,  and  tints  your  trousers  with  a  rich,  powdery, 
green  bloom  where  it  darkens  under  the  trees  by  the  or- 
chard corner.  Beyond  this,  dipping  below  the  sunk  stone 
wall  and  the  dry  nettle-grown  ditch  in  which  the  ball 
buries  itself  instinctively  whenever  you  hit  it,  is  the  big 
grass  field  for  cricket,  with  the  wickets  always  standing. 
And  beyond  this,  sweeping  away  in  every  direction  to 
right  and  left,  go  the  great  lagoons  of  corn,  brimming  up 
to  their  green  confines,  and  Barclay's  farm  shimmering 
on  the  distant  cliff  hill  against  the  sky-line ;  and  the  dim 
Garthston  windmill  turning  its  listless  sails  over  in 
dreamy  soliloquy  across  three  miles  of  fattening  grain 
and  green  hedge  and  buttercupped  pasture,  with  the  cry 
of  cattle  and  the  chorus  of  birds,  and  the  hum  of  wings 
and  the  fiddling  of  hidden  grasshoppers;  and  the  celestial 
sound  of  the  sea,  two  fields  off,  lipping  the  lonely  shore, 
and  the  basin  of  blue  sky  above,  with  a  burning  round  sun 
for  trade  mark;  and  the  stirring  of  lazy  leaves,  the  cluck 
of  poultry,  the  soothing  grunt  of  distant  pigs,  out- 
stretched on  the  pungent  straw  and  intoxicated  with  con- 
tent, the  solaceful  shutting  of  unseen  gates,  and  all  the 
thousand  things  and  doings,  and  sounds  and  sights  and 
scents  that  lie  expressed  in  the  words  Cliff  Wrangham 
and  Dixon's  by  the  sea. 

And  here  the  Spawer  came  in  the  early  days  of  July, 
big  with  musical  enthusiasm  and  the  themes  for  his  second 
concerto. 


26  THE  POST-GIRL 

THEY  made  the  two  end  windows  over  to  him,  adjoining 
the  orchard;  the  best  sitting-room— that  is  not  even  used 
by  the  family  on  Sundays— with  the  best  bedroom  above ; 
and  he  was  very  happy  indeed.  The  diminutive  front 
door,  all  out  of  plumb  under  its  three  drunken  panes  of 
different  colored  glass,  and  buried  a  yard  deep  behind  its 
porch  of  flowering  tea,  cut  him  off  figuratively  from  the 
rest  of  the  house ;  and  the  little  staircase,  starting  straight 
upward  for  the  square  yard  of  bedroom  landing  from  the 
sunk  mat,  cut  him  off  in  effect.  Its  tread  is  so  steep  and 
so  unwonted  that  it  put  him  in  mind  of  augmented  sec- 
onds whenever  he  went  up  or  down,  and  the  first  step 
gives  the  door  so  little  turning  space  that  you  have  to 
mount  your  foot  upon  it  and  twist  round,  with  the  sneck 
in  your  stomach,  to  get  into  the  Spawer's  room.  A  little 
faded,  old-world,  out-of-the-world  room,  like  a  faint  last 
century  sigh,  dear  to  the  Spawer's  heart  on  the  first  day ; 
doubly  dear  on  the  second.  The  dearest  little  room  in  all 
the  world,  perhaps,  before  the  third.  Even  the  irresistible 
tide  of  modernity  flowing  into  it  through  the  Spawer's 
possessions  settled  down  in  clear,  hushed  pools,  as  though 
the  turbulent  current  of  Time  had  found  rest  here  at  last 
and  was  still.  In  its  nostrils  the  sweetest  breath  of  decay ; 
the  pleasant,  musty  incense  of  crumbling  mortar  and 
horse-hair,  and  curtains  heavy  in  their  folds  with  the  rec- 
ord of  departed  harvests ;  of  air  kept  piously  secluded  un- 
der lock  and  key,  through  a  sacred  life  of  Sundays,  and 
never  disturbed  in  its  religious  brooding  by  any  thought- 
less gusts  of  worldly  wind.  On  its  walls  a  choir  of  pink 
roses,  seeking  the  ceiling  in  prim  devotion— such  a  paper 
as  you  shall  no  longer  find  at  any  shop  in  these  days  of 
Lincrusta  and  Tynecastle  and  Anaglypta  and  Japanese 


THE  POST-GIRL  27 

leathers,  though  you  pile  gold  on  the  counter  in  pyramids 
and  exhort  the  covetous  glint  in  the  salesman's  eye 
through  tears. 

From  the  hook  in  the  center  of  the  ceiling  hangs  the  big 
brass  duplex  lamp,  beneath  which  the  Spawer  bends  his 
head  by  the  hour  together,  orchestrating  his  concerto  over 
a  busy  Jacob's  ladder  of  full  score;  or,  in  more  material 
mood,  where  he  draws  up  his  chair  to  Mrs.  Dixon's  im- 
mortal productions  in  pastry,  with  the  little  brass  bell  to 
his  right  hand,  that  gives  forth  a  faint,  far,  meadow- 
tinkle  when  he  swings  it.  Whereupon  the  twins,  who 
have  been  waiting  for  the  sound  of  it  all  the  time,  under 
orders,  barely  a  nose-width  out  of  sight  round  the  corner, 
take  up  its  expiring  message  with  a  business-like  scuffle 
of  boots  and  run  loudly  to  the  kitchen  in  double  harness, 
shouting  as  they  go:  "Mek  'aste  wi'  ye  an'  all.  Bell  's 
gone." 

By  the  left  wall,  abacking  the  staircase,  the  two-headed 
horse-hair  sofa,  consecrate  to  Dixon,  beneath  the  framed 
print  of  the  Ponte  dei  Sospiri  and  the  twin  china  shep- 
herds staring  hard  at  the  mantelpiece  off  their  Swiss 
brackets;  where  Dixon  fills  his  pipe  at  night  when  the 
Spawer's  work  is  over,  and  puts  a  cheery  retainer  on  the 
conversation  with  his  familiar: 

"Noo  then  ...  ah  '11  tell  ye." 

And  tells  him  in  a  confidential  whisper,  after  a  look  at 
the  door : 

"They  say  Lunnon  's  a  rum  place !" 

Or,  "Ah  've  'card  tell  o'  some  queer  goings  on  i' 
towns !" 

Or,  "Ye  '11  'a  seed  a  deal  o'  strange  sights  i'  France, 
ah 's  think!" 


28  THE  POST-GIRL 

And  goes  to  bed  slapping  his  knees  and  saying :  "Well, 
ah  don't  know !"  till  Mrs.  Dixon  tells  him,  "Now,  you  Ve 
been  talking  your  nonsense  again,"  knowing  well  the  tokens. 

And  for  the  rest,  dispersed  indiscriminately  about  the 
room,  there  are  Daudet's  "Jack";  Tolstoi's  "Senate  a 
Kreutzer" ;  half  a  dozen  old  leather-bound  volumes  of 
Moliere,  opening  of  themselves  at  "Le  Bourgeois,"  "Le 
Malade,"  or  "L'Avare" ;  Turgenieff  twice  over  in  French 
yellow ;  Swinburne's  "Songs  before  Sunrise" ;  a  litter  of 
Brahms  in  his  granite  Simrock  livery;  of  Grieg  in  pale 
pink  Peters ;  of  red  brick  Chopin ;  of  Billow's  Beethoven ; 
of  Tschaikowsky ;  of  Rachmaninov ;  of  Glazounow ;  of 
Balakirev — of  Young  Russia,  in  a  word ;  of  Hans  Huber ; 
of  Smetana ;  of  Dvorak ;  of  loose  MSS.  and  blank  music 
paper — all  strewing  the  chairs  and  sofa  and  table  in  ideal 
confusion,  so  that  before  the  Spawer  may  sit  down  on  one 
seat  he  must  mortgage  another.  A  letter-weight  bust  of 
Chopin  on  the  round  antimacassared  table  by  the  window  ; 
by  its  side  a  signed  Paderewski ;  on  the  mantelpiece  the 
genial  Bohemian  'cellist,  piercing  the  soul  of  the  little 
room  with  his  glowing  eyes  from  under  the  well-known 
silvery  nimbus,  and  apostrophising  his  "dear  young 
friend,"  Maurice  Ethelbert  Wynne,  in  neatest  English 
through  copper-plate  German  characters ;  Sarasate  on  the 
sideboard  by  the  big  cupboard  undermining  the  staircase, 
where  the  Spawer's  table-bass  goes  off  in  heat  apoplexy, 
a  bottle  a  day. 

Elsewhere  of  literary  features  a  few ;  of  singers,  of  ar- 
tists, of  actors  even.  Lastly,  after  an  octave  of  days, 
conies  the  piano  too,  and  takes  up  the  far  angle  by  the 
window  corner,  its  treble  truss  touching  the  steel  fender, 
its  bass  abutting  the  sill. 


THE  POST- GIRL  29 

And  the  Spawer  sets  to  work  in  earnest. 

Not  the  Spawer  of  hitherto.  No  longer  the  smooth- 
browed  son  of  leisure,  with  laughter  held  lazily  captive  in 
the  meshes  of  his  moustache  and  an  unencumbered  eye 
for  the  clear  draughts  of  gladness,  but  a  purposeful 
demon  with  conspiring  brows  and  deadly-looking  hands 
clawing  the  keys  with  a  sinuous  throttle  in  each  finger, 
that  draw  forth  a  pencil  murderously  from  time  to  time, 
like  a  stiletto,  to  stab  thought  upon  the  paper  with  the 
unpleasant  despatch  of  assassination. 

A  pause  for  the  day's  dip  and  dinner,  and  on  again; 
and  a  pause  for  a  stroll  and  tea,  and  on  again ;  and  supper 
and  a  chat  with  Dixon,  and  on  again.  Till  Dixon  slaps 
his  thigh  when  he  comes  back  from  anywhere  and  hears 
it  all  in  full  progression,  and  asks : 

"What !    Is  'e  still  agate  [on  the  go]  ?" 

Pushing  his  hat  from  his  brow  to  reply : 

"Mah  wod !    It 's  a  caution,  yon !" 

For  a  second  octave  of  days. 

And  then  a  strange  happening,  to  check  the  buoyant 
current  of  the  Spawer 's  activity. 

Very  late  one  night  the  shadow  of  his  head  lingered 
upon  the  figured  print  blind,  drawn  loosely  down  over 
the  wide-opened  window,  and  the  piano  poured  its  un- 
ceasing treasury  into  night's  immeasurable  coffers.  Al- 
ready, in  the  long  musical  decade  since  Dixon's  departure, 
he  had  risen  to  readjust  the  smouldering  wicks,  and  gone 
back  to  a  new  lease  of  light  at  the  keyboard.  The  light 
was  failing  for  the  second  time  as  his  fingers,  slowing 
dreamily,  sought  the  final  shelter  of  Chopin.  By  many 
winding  ways  they  came  at  length  to  the  hushed  haven 
of  the  seventeenth  prelude,  with  the  muffled  A-flat  bell 


30  THE  POST- GIRL 

booming  its  solemn  death-message  over  the  waters,  and 
the  little  tear-laden  boat  of  melody  cradling  its  grief  to 
silence  on  the  ripples  below. 

The  bell  tolled  no  more;  the  little  boat  lay  tremulous 
upon  the  echoes,  and  in  the  lingering  stillness  that  fol- 
lowed, before  yet  the  player's  fingers  had  dared  to  break 
that  sacred  communion  with  the  keys,  fell  all  abruptly  a 
sudden  human  sob. 

A  sudden  human  sob  out  of  the  darkness  beyond  the 
blind.  So  near  and  real  and  necessitous  that  the  Spaw- 
er's  elbows  kicked  backward  from  the  keys,  and  the 
pedals  went  off  like  triggers  under  his  feet  as  he  spun 
round  to  the  window.  And  yet,  so  far,  so  remote  in 
probability,  that  even  while  he  turned,  he  found  far 
easier  to  account  for  it  as  some  acute,  psychical  mani- 
festation of  his  own  emotions,  rather  than  the  ex- 
pression of  any  agency  from  without.  Through  faith  in 
this  feeling,  and  no  fear  of  it,  he  flung  up  the  blind  ab- 
ruptly, and  thrust  forth  his  head  with  a  peremptory 
"Who's  there?" 

Outside,  the  world  lay  wrapped  in  a  great  breathing 
stillness.  Night's  ultramarine  bosom  was  ablaze  with 
starry  chain  of  mail.  From  the  far  fields  came  faint  im- 
material sounds,  commingled  in  the  suspended  fragrance 
of  hay,  in  warm  revelations  of  ripening  corn,  in  the 
aromatic  pungency  of  nettles,  and  all  the  humid  suffoca- 
tion of  herbs  that  open  their  moist  pores  at  even.  Dis- 
tant sheep,  cropping  in  ghost-like  procession  across  misty, 
dew-laden  clover,  contributed  now  and  again  their 
strange,  cutting,  human  cough.  Came,  as  the  Spawer 
listened,  the  slow,  muffled  thud-thud  of  some  horse's 
hoofs  on  the  turf,  as  it  plodded  in  patient  change  of 


THE  POST-GIRL  31 

pasture,  and  the  deep  blowing  of  kine  along  the  hedge- 
bottoms.  But  these,  with  the  soft  sound  of  the  sea, 
spreading  its  countless  fans  of  effervescing  surf  upon  the 
sandy  shore,  were  the  only  answer  to  his  challenge. 

He  threw  it  out  again,  with  the  mere  indolent  amuse- 
ment of  casting  pebbles  into  a  pool,  and  swung  one  leg 
over  the  sill.  Night  allured  him  with  all  her  mystic  altar 
lights.  He  was  of  a  mind  to  sit  there  and  fling  open  his 
soul  like  a  lattice  to  her  seductive  minstrelsy;  drain  deep 
draughts  of  celestial  gladness  from  the  overflowing  tank- 
ard of  stars.  In  the  dead  black  porch  of  flowering  tea, 
with  one  pale  planetary  flame  shining  through  its  taber-. 
nacled  branches,  no  stir.  No  stir  in  the  square  black  rug 
of  long  grass,  softened  in  its  centre  to  grey  silver-point. 
No  stir  in  the  massed  shadow  of  trees,  uprising  rigid  like 
dim  marine  growths  in  a  dense  ocean  of  azure. 

"Well  ?"  he  asked  of  the  stillness,  swinging  his  leg  with 
a  complacent  tattoo  of  heel  against  the  brickwork,  and 
smiling  indulgence  at  his  own  little  extension  in  folly. 
"For  the  last  time,!  One  .  .  .  two  .  .  .  three.  Or  must 
I  fire?" 

The  stars  twinkled  him  in  irresistible  summons  to  the 
sea.  Even  the  sea  itself  raised  its  supplicative  song  a 
little  louder,  he  thought,  as  he  listened,  and  called 
"Come !"  The  night  was  too  full  of  blessings  to  be  suffo- 
cated untimely  beneath  the  blankets;  all  his  senses  were 
making  outcry  for  its  bounty,  and  the  soul  of  him  heark- 
ened. Just  one  stroll  to  the  edge  of  the  water  and  back 
before  bed.  It  was  no  new  thing  for  him  to  do.  He 
reached  his  hat  from  its  insecure  slant  upon  the  pile  of 
music  topping  the  piano,  and  clasped  the  sill  with  both 
hands  for  descent. 


32  THE  POST-GIRL 

As  he  did  so,  in  the  still  pause  presaging  the  act,  he 
heard  the  frenetic  tugging  of  someone  at  the  sticky  or- 
chard gate,  that  takes  six*  pulls  to  open  and  three  and  a 
kick  to  close,  ever  since  Jabe  Stevens  painted  it  drab,  with 
black  latch  pickings.  He  heard  the  quick  repeated  pant  of 
the  pulls ;  felt  in  a  flash  the  desperate  occasion  that  was 
urging  them ;  felt  the  very  prayers  surging  about  him  on 
their  way  from  a  soul  in  turbulent  tussle  against  destiny, 
and  next  moment  was  down  on  his  feet  before  the  win- 
dow with  a  clear,  arrestive  "Hello!" 

The  click  of  the  liberated  latch;  garments  in  swift  full 
stir;  a  prolonged  rending,  like  the  descent  of  some  four- 
octave  chromatic,  and  a  sudden  breath-held,  death-like 
stillness  fell  upon  his  landing.  For  a  moment  he  could 
elucidate  nothing  by  the  look.  Sight  was  sealed  up  in 
yellow  lamplight.  Two  steps  forward  and  the  bondage 
was  burst.  He  made  out  the  line  of  flat  wood  stakes 
bounding  the  orchard  to  its  half  width,  whence  rough 
green  rails  complete  the  demarcation;  and  the  gate, 
thrown  three  quarters  open;  and  by  it,  the  dim,  motion- 
less figure  of  a  girl. 


CHAPTER  III 

A  LL  that  had  been  silence  before  was  swallowed  up 
JL\.  at  a  gulp  in  the  sudden  deeps  of  discovery.  The 
Spawer,  with  legs  planted  forcefully  apart,  chin  thrown 
forward,  and  sidelong  listening  ear,  tugged  at  the  tawny 
end  of  his  moustache.  It  is  not  altogether  a  child's  task, 
whatever  may  be  thought  to  the  contrary,  to  address  dis- 
creetly a  panting  feminine  figure  in  the  darkness  at  five 
paces,  that  has  drawn  the  undesirable  fire  of  our  atten- 
tion nearing  midnight,  and  may  be  either  a  common  gar- 
den thief  or  a  despicable  henroost  robber;  or  a  farm 
wench,  deflected  by  the  piano  on  her  way  home;  or  a 
mere  tramp,  bungling  the  matter  of  a  free  straw  bed,  and 
in  trouble  because  appearances  are  against  her;  or  none 
of  these  things  at  all,  but  something  quite  other,  utterly 
beyond  the  scope  of  divination.  And  since  it  is  neither 
generous  to  approach  distress  through  the  narrow  portals 
of  suspicion,  nor  desirable  to  doff  one's  hat  in  premature 
respect  to  what  may  turn  out,  after  all,  mere  unworthy 
fraud,  the  Spawer  held  his  peace  a  while  in  courteous  at- 
tendance upon  the  girl.  Before  him  her  black  silhouette 
remained  rigid,  stilled  unnaturally,  like  a  bird,  in  that  last 
tense  moment  of  surrender  beneath  the  fowler's  fingers. 
She  stood,  part  way  through  the  gate,  with  averted  head 
—one  hand  straining  the  gate-post  to  her  for  strength 
and  stay — the  other  clutched  to  quell  the  turbulence  at  her 
breast.  In  such  wise,  for  a  short  century  of  seconds,  dis- 

3  33 


34  THE  POST-GIRL 

coverer  and  discovered  waited  motionless  the  one  upon 
the  other. 

Pity  for  the  girl's  confusion,  after  a  while,  moved  the 
Spawer  when  it  seemed  she  meant  to  make  no  use  of  the 
proffered  moments.  He  broke  up  silence  with  a  reassur- 
ing swing  of  heel,  though  without  advancing. 

"I  'm  sorry  if  I  frightened  you,"  he  said,  in  an  open 
voice,  devoid  of  any  metallic  spur  of  challenge  or  odious 
trappings  of  suspicion.  "I  did  n't  mean  to  do  that.  .  .  . 
But  .  .  ."  He  paused  there  for  a  moment,  with  the  con- 
junction trailing  off  in  an  agreeable  tag  of  stars  for  the 
girl's  use,  and  then,  when  she  caught  her  breath  over  a 
troubled  underlip,  took  it  up  himself.  "...  We  're  not 
accustomed  to  callers  quite  so  late  .  .  .  and  I  came  out 
in  a  bit  of  a  hurry.  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you?" 

Beautiful  question  of  solicitude  for  a  guilty  conscience, 
that  he  smiled  over  grimly  as  he  said  it.  He  knew  well 
enough  that  the  very  utmost  he  could  have  done  for  her 
would  have  been  to  keep  the  other  side  of  the  sill  till  she 
made  good  her  escape.  And  he  knew,  too,  that  some  part 
of  her  must  have  suffered  tear  by  a  couple  of  yards  or 
so,  but  that  was  a  matter  might  very  well  wait  over 
awhile.  For  the  present,  all  he  wanted  was  a  little  en- 
lightenment ;  later,  the  floodgates  of  compassion  could  be 
liberally  loosened  if  required.  He  despatched  his  words, 
and  dipped  a  hand  into  his  trouser's  pocket,  making  a 
friendly  jingle  of  keys  and  coppers.  The  unperemptory 
tone  of  his  voice,  the  kindness  of  the  undiminished  dis- 
tance he  kept,  and  this  last  show  of  leisurely  dispassion 
did  their  work  and  raised  the  girl's  head. 

"Oh,  I  'm  sorry  .  .  .  and  ashamed !"  she  gulped,  bat- 
tling forth  into  the  open  through  a  threatening  tumult  of 


THE  POST-GIRL  35 

tears.  "It  's  all  my  fault  .  .  .  every  bit  of  it.  I  ought 
never  to  have  come."  She  stopped  momentarily,  midway 
through  her  words,  gripping  on  to  fortitude  in  silence  as 
to  a  hand-rail,  till  the  big  looming  sob  had  gone  by. 
"...  So  close.  And  I  ought  n't  to  have  come  ...  at 
all,  I  know.  But  it  's  too  late  now.  Wishes  won't  do 
any  good.  Oh  .  .  .  forgive  me,  please." 

Her  voice,  even  in  the  listening  stillness  of  leaves,  was 
almost  inaudible,  but  there  was  the  rare  mellow  sweetness 
of  blown  pipes  about  it  such  as  the  Spawer  had  not  been 
prepared  to  hear  at  this  time,  and  in  this  place.  The 
musical  ear  of  him  opened  swiftly  wide  to  its  magic  like 
a  casement  to  some  forerunning  spring  breeze;  and  his 
heart  stirred  on  a  sudden  to  wakefulness — keen  bird  with 
a  most  watchful  eye.  Whatever  else,  it  were  absurd  to 
couple  vulgar  delinquencies  with  so  soft  a  mouthpiece. 
He  flung  the  lurking  idea  afar,  and  a  delightful  flame  of 
wonder  grew  up  within  him,  illuminating  possibility. 

"Certainly,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  her  petition,  striving 
to  lull  the  girl's  alarms  with  his  manner  of  easy  conse- 
quence. "I  '11  do  my  best.  But  tell  me  first  what  for." 

"For  ...  for  what  I  've  done,"  said  the  girl  unstead- 
ily, each  word  tremulous  with  a  tear.  "I  did  n't  mean — 
to  disturb  you.  I  ought  to  have  spoken — when  you  called 
— first  of  all.  But  I  could  n't — somehow — and  I  never 
expected  you — by  the  window.  I  thought — perhaps — the 
door.  And  I  feel  so  mean — and  miserable — and 
wretched.  .  .  ."  Her  voice  suddenly  went  from  her  to 
an  interminable  distance,  falling  faintly  afar  like  the  un- 
real voice  that  wanders  aimlessly  about  the  slopes  of 
slumber.  "And  oh,  please — will  you  give  me  a  glass  of 
water  ?" 


36  THE  POST-GIRL 

With  that,  and  a  residuary  shaky  sigh  of  her  little  store 
of  breath  left  over,  her  head  fell  limply  forward.  There 
was  no  mistaking  this  last  tell-tale  token  of  physical  ex- 
tremity ;  and  he  was  by  her  side  in  a  moment. 

"Hello!"  he  called  on  the  way,  encouraging  her  by 
voice  to  resolution,  till  he  reached  her,  "what  a  great 
iron-shod  beast  I  am,  jumping  out  and  scaring  you  in  this 
fashion.  Hold  up  a  little.  You  're  not  going  to  give  up 
the  ghost  on  my  account,  surely!" 

She  made  a  futile  effort  to  move  her  lips  for  reply,  and 
lifted  her  head  in  the  supreme  spurt  of  conscious  en- 
deavor, but  it  tumbled  straightway  across  the  other  shoulder 
uncontrolled,  and  swung  a  helpless  semi-circle  before  her 
breast.  She  would  have  been  down  after  that,  all  the  length 
of  her,  but  that  his  arms  were  quick  to  intercept  the  fall. 
The  shock  of  sudden  succor  checked  her  in  her  collapse. 

"Thank  you,"  she  panted,  in  a  voice  that  stifled  its 
words,  and  striving,  in  a  half-unconscious  and  wholly  in- 
competent fashion,  to  free  him  of  the  necessity  of  her 
further  support.  "...  I  'm  better  now." 

Words  came  no  more  easily  to  her  under  recovery  than 
under  the  original  discovery,  though  he  knew  well  enough 
that  it  was  because  her  lips  were  overburdened  with  them, 
and  through  no  poverty  of  desire. 

"Better  ?"  he  echoed,  transplanting  her  own  conviction- 
less  admission  into  the  pleasantest  prospect  possible. 
"Come,  come !  That  's  gladdening.  There !  .  .  .  Do  you 
think  you  can  stand  all  right?" 

He  loosened  the  clasp  of  his  arms  for  a  moment,  and 
she  swayed  out  impotently  in  their  widening  circle. 

"I  think  so,"  she  said,  giving  desperate  lie  to  proof 
positive  under  the  strenuousness  of  desire. 


THE  POST- GIRL  37 

He  laughed  indulgently,  and  caught  her  in  again. 

"Capital!"  he  said,  "if  only  you  were  trying  to  sit 
down.  But  you  must  n't  sit  down  here.  See."  He  took 
a  tighter  hold  of  her.  "...  If  I  help  you — so.  .  .  .  Do 
you  think  you  can  manage  to  the  door?  It  's  only  a 
step." 

He  urged  her  into  motion  with  a  gentle  insistence  of 
arm,  and  set  her  the  example  of  a  leisurely  foot  forward. 
For  the  first  time  he  felt  the  exercise  of  her  power  in 
resistance. 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  she  told  him,  turning  off  the  two  little 
panting  negatives  in  their  sudden  hot  breath  of  shame, 
and  stiffening  at  the  suggestion  of  advance. 

"No?"  he  queried,  in  audible  surprise.  "You  're  not 
equal  to  that  ?  But  you  must  n't  stay  out  here.  You  need 
to  sit  down  and  have  something  to  pull  you  up."  He 
brought  the  other  arm  about  her  in  a  twinkling.  "Here, 
let  me  lift  you,"  he  said.  "I  've  helped  drunken  men  up 
three  flights  of  stairs  before  to-day,  fighting  every  bit  of 
the  way.  I  ought  to  be  able  to  tackle  you  as  far  as  the 
door!" 

Before  she  could  absorb  the  intention  through  his 
words  he  had  got  her  begirt  for  the  raising.  The  con- 
sciousness, coming  upon  her  at  such  short  notice,  in  com- 
pany with  the  action  itself,  found  her  without  prepara- 
tion other  than  a  gasp  of  blank  amaze.  Then  her  hand 
went  out  to  stay  him. 

"Oh,  let  me !"  she  said,  with  a  horrified  desire  to  avert 
this  fresh  imposition  upon  his  credulity  or  good-nature. 
"I  can  walk — very  well.  .  .  ." 

She  finished  the  petition  in  mid-air,  and  the  sound  of 
his  amused,  wilful  laughter  just  beneath  her  ears,  as  he 


38  THE  POST- GIRL 

waded  with  her  through  that  odious  short  sea  of  lamp- 
light to  the  black  porch. 

"There!"  he  said,  to  another  note  of  laughter,  lower- 
ing her  carefully  till  her  feet  found  the  square  slab  of 
scoured  stone,  with  the  scraper  set  in  it,  and  strove  hastily 
to  reassert  themselves.  "That  's  better  than  bartering  in 
yes's  and  no's.  Thank  you  for  keeping  so  beautifully  still 
and  not  kicking  me ;  you  could  if  you  'd  tried.  So !" 

He  steered  her  down  the  narrow  darkness  of  the  porch, 
with  his  hands  protectively  upon  her  elbows  from  behind, 
through  a  rustle  of  leaves  and  the  springing  of  flexible 
branches.  She  went  before  him,  without  any  words. 
Only  when  his  arm  slid  past  her  to  throw  open  wide 
the  door  did  she  seem  about  to  offer  any  furtherance  of 
demur.  But  the  dreadful  publicity  of  burning  wicks  lay 
forward,  and  the  still  more  dreadful  publicity  of  his  face 
lay  behind  against  retreat,  and  she  went  dumbly  round 
the  door,  and  so  into  the  room.  He  could  feel  the  sudden 
shrinkage  of  her  being  as  the  full  force  of  the  episode 
surged  back  upon  her  in  a  vivid  hot  wave  out  of  the  lamp- 
light, and  was  sorry.  She  would  have  dropped  down,  in 
the  penitential  meekness  of  submission,  upon  the  triangle 
of  chair  that  showed  itself  from  beneath  a  litter  of  the 
Spawer's  music  immediately  by  the  door  as  they  entered, 
but  his  arm  resisted  the  tell-tale  bend  of  her  body. 

"No,  no,"  he  said,  realising  her  desire  for  the  penance 
of  discomfort  rather  than  the  comfort  of  repose,  and 
jerking  the  chair  out  of  consideration,  ".  .  .  not  there." 
He  thrust  the  table  far  out  into  the  room  with  a  quick 
scream  of  its  castors  at  being  so  rudely  awakened,  and 
pushed  her  gently  to  the  sofa. 

"That  's  better,"  he  said,  with  a  great  evidence  of  con- 


THE  POST- GIRL  39 

tent,  as  she  sank  back  upon  it  before  solicitous  pressure. 
"The  cushions  are  hard,  but  the  passengers  are  earnestly 
requested  to  place  their  feet  upon  them."  He  drew  in  the 
table  again,  so  that  she  might  have  its  rest  for  her  arm  or 
her  elbow,  and  deferring  the  moment  for  their  eyes  to 
make  their  first  official  meeting,  bustled  off  to  the  side- 
board. "Please  excuse  the  grim  formality  of  everything 
you  find  here,"  he  continued,  in  light-hearted  purpose, 
and  commingling  his  words  with  an  urgent  jingling  of 
glass,  "but  I  'm  a  musical  sort  of  man,  and  like  the  rest 
of  them,  a  lover  of  law  and  order.  A  time  and  place  for 
everything,  that  's  our  motto,  and  everything  in  its  place. 
It  's  a  little  weakness  of  ours.  .  .  .  Therefore"— his 
voice  suddenly  went  cavernous  in  the  recesses  of  the  big 
cupboard —  ".  .  .  where  on  earth  's  the  brandy?  Ah!" 
he  emerged  again  on  the  interjection  smiling,  as  on  a  tri- 
umphal car.  "Here  it  is.  Now  I  'm  going  to  give  you  a 
little  of  this  .  .  .  it  's  better  than  any  amount  of  bad 
drinking  water,  and  does  n't  taste  half  so  nasty.  Oh,  no, 
no,  no"— in  answer  to  the  intuition  of  a  quick  protesting 
turn  of  head  from  the  sofa — ".  .  .  not  much.  I  won't 
let  you  have  much,  so  it  's  no  use  asking.  Only  as 
much  as  is  good  for  you.  Just  a  lit — tie  drop  and  no 
more."  He  measured  out  the  drop  to  the  exact  length  of 
the  accented  syllable,  and  the  stopper  clinked  home  under 
a  soft,  satisfied  "So-o-o !"  The  syphon  took  up  the  word, 
seething  it  vigorously  into  the  glass,  and  next  moment 
his  arm  had  spanned  the  table  to  an  encouraging :  "Here 
we  are !  Take  a  o-ood  pull  of  this  while  it  fizzes." 

A  soft,  tremulous  hand,  nut-brown  to  the  wrist,  stole 
out  in  timid  obedience  over  the  table,  and  the  Spawer 
perceived  his  visitor  for  the  first  time. 


40  THE  POST-GIRL 

If  the  mere  sound  of  her  voice  had  aroused  his  wonder, 
the  sight  of  the  girl's  face  added  doubly  to  his  surprise. 
A  face  as  little  to  be  looked  for  in  this  place  and  at  this 
time,  and  under  these  conditions,  as  to  make  quest  for 
orchids  down  some  pitmouth  with  pick  and  Davy  lamp. 
He  could  not  maintain  the  look  long,  for  before  satisfy- 
ing his  own  inquiry  he  sought  to  establish  the  girl's  con- 
fidence, but  he  noted  the  wide  generous  forehead,  the  big 
consuming  eyes,  burning  deep  in  sorrowing  self-re- 
proach and  giving  him  a  moment's  gaze  over  the  uplifted 
tumbler;  the  dispassionate  narrow  nose,  sprinkled  about 
its  bridge  and  between  the  brows  with  a  pepper-castor 
helping  of  freckled  candor;  the  small  lips,  parted  sub- 
missively to  the  glass  rim  over  two  slips  of  milky  teeth ; 
the  long,  sleek  cheeks ;  the  slender,  pear-shaped  chin ;  the 
soft,  supple  neck  of  russet  tan,  spliced  on  to  a  gleaming 
shaft  of  ivory,  where  it  dipped  through  her  dress-collar 
to  her  bosom ;  the  quick  throbbing  throat,  and  the  burn- 
ing lobes  of  red,  like  live  cinders,  in  her  hair. 

As  to  the  girl  herself,  her  whence  and  where  and 
whither,  the  Spawer  could  make  no  guess.  She  wore  a 
shabby  pale  blue  Tam-o'-Shanter,  faded  under  innumer- 
able suns,  and  washed  out  to  many  a  shower,  but  on  her 
head  it  appeared  perfectly  reputable  and  self-supporting, 
and  identified  itself  with  the  girl's  face  so  instantly  and 
so  completely  that  its  weather-stain  counted  for  precious- 
ness,  like  the  oaten  tint  of  her  skin.  A  storm-tried  mack- 
intosh-cape, looped  over  her  arms  and  falling  loosely 
down  her  back  from  the  shoulders,  and  the  print  blouse, 
evidenced  by  her  bust  above  the  table  and  her  sleeves, 
and  the  serviceable  skirt  of  blue  serge  that  the  Spawer 
had  caught  sight  of  in  the  cleft  between  the  table  and  sofa. 


THE  POST- GIRL  41 

completed  the  girl  as  revealed  through  her  dress.  Every- 
thing about  her  was  for  hard  wear  and  tear,  and  had 
stood  to  the  task.  There  was  not  a  single  button's  worth 
of  pretension  in  the  whole  of  her  attire ;  not  a  brooch  at 
her  throat,  nor  a  bangle  on  either  of  her  wrists  to  plead 
for  her  station.  She  had  dipped  her  nose  meekly  into  the 
tumbler  and  was  letting  the  sparkles  play  about  her  lips 
momentarily,  with  dropped  eyelids;  then  the  glass  went 
down  to  the  table,  and  her  eyes  opened  wide  upon  the 
Spawer  as  though  casting  up  the  full  column  of  her  lia- 
bilities, resolved  to  shirk  nothing. 

"You  don't  drink,"  he  said,  with  a  voice  of  solicitude. 
"I  have  n't  made  it  too  weak  for  you  ?  .  .  .  Surely !  I 
took  great  care — I  might  have  been  making  it  for  myself. 
Or  is  there  anything  else  you  'd  rather  have  ?" 

He  found  her  soft  voice  entangled  in  his  inquiry,  and 
stopped. 

".  .  .  Ever  so  much,"  he  drew  up  in  time  to  hear. 
"But  it  's  not  that  .  .  ."  The  frank  lips  were  wrestling 
to  pronounce  sentence  upon  her  crime,  but  they  broke 
down  in  the  task  and  transferred  their  self-imposed  judg- 
ment to  him.  "I  don't  know  what  you  must  think  of  me 
.  .  ."  she  said. 

The  Spawer  laughed  light-hearted  indulgence  upon  the 
admission. 

"To  tell  the  truth,"  he  said,  "I  hardly  know  what  to 
think  myself,  so  it  's  no  use  saying  I  do.  I  thought  per- 
haps .  .  .  poultry,  first  of  all;  but  your  voice  does  n't 
sound  a  bit  like  poultry,  and  I  'm  sure  you  don't  look  it. 
And  I  don't  think  it  was  apples  either,  though  you  'd  got 
the  right  gate  for  those.  Besides,  apples  don't  count 
.  .  .  that  way.  I  've  gathered  them  myself  at  this  time 


42  THE  POST-GIRL 

of  night  before  now,  and  been  hauled  back  over  the  wall 
by  a  leg.  We  don't  think  anything  of  that." 

"It  was  the  piano,"  she  explained  unsteadily,  and  for  a 
moment  the  steadfast  flames  in  her  eyes  flickered  under 
irresolute  lids. 

"The  piano?"  The  Spawer  raised  his  voice  in  amused 
interrogation.  "Heavens!  you  were  n't  going  to  try  and 
take  that  away,  were  you?  It  took  ten  of  us  and  a  bottle 
of  whiskey  to  get  it  in,  and  threepence  to  Barclay's  boy  for 
sitting  on  the  gate  and  telling  us  by  clockwork  'Ye  '11  get 
stuck  wi'  'er  yet  before  ye  're  done,'  and  half-a-crown  to 
the  man  that  let  the  truss  down  upon  my  toes.  Surely 
you  were  n't  thinking  of  tackling  an  enterprise  like  that 
single-handed,  were  you  ?" 

For  the  first  time  he  drew  forth  the  faint  fore-glim- 
mering of  what  the  girl  should  be  like  in  smiles ;  a  sud- 
den illuminated  softening  of  the  features,  as  when  warm 
sunlight  melts  marble,  that  spread  and  passed  in  a  mo- 
ment. 

"I  was  listening,"  she  said. 

"But  that  's  a  dreadful  confession."  His  eyebrows 
went  up  in  tragic  surprise  and  his  voice  departed  to  the 
mock-horrified  aloofness  of  a  whisper.  "Listeners  never 
hear  any  good  of  themselves,  you  know,  and  never  come 
to  any."  He  slipped  from  the  pseudo-serious  with  a  sly 
laugh.  "Tell  me  the  worst,"  he  begged.  "How  much 
did  you  hear?" 

"Oh!  I  don't  know.  .  .  ."  She  searched  his  inquiry 
for  a  space  with  her  luminous  eyes.  "Only  very  little. 
Perhaps  .  .  .  perhaps  I  'd  been  half  an  hour." 

"Half  an  hour,"  he  said,  "with  the  classics.  Lord! 
you  've  been  punished  for  your  offence." 


THE  POST- GIRL  43 

"But  I  was  n't  by  the  window  all  the  time,"  she  made 
haste  to  assure  him.  "I  was  standing  in  the  lane  .  .  . 
by  the  kitchen  gate."  And  then,  with  the  vial  of  con- 
fession in  her  fingers,  she  let  it  drain  before  him  in 
dropped  sentences.  "And  I  did  n't  mean  to  come  any 
nearer  than  that.  All  I  wanted  was  the  music.  Only  .  .  . 
when  you  played  .  .  .  what  you  played  last  .  .  ."  Her 
voice  stumbled  a  little  with  her  here,  but  she  picked  up 
the  falter  with  a  quick,  corrective  tilt  of  the  nose,  and 
walked  more  wardedly  down  the  path  of  speech,  her  eye- 
lids lowered,  like  one  who  moves  by  spiritual  impulse. 
"I  felt  ...  oh !  I  don't  know  how  I  felt — as  though, 
somehow,  somebody  were  beckoning  me  to  the  window, 
where  the  music  was.  And  so  I  came.  And  then,  when 
I  'd  got  there,  all  of  a  sudden  things  came  back  upon  me 
that  I  knew  I  'd  known  once  .  .  .  and  forgotten.  I  saw 
my  mother  ...  as  she  was  ever  so  many  years  ago,  be- 
fore she  died,  playing  to  me  .  .  .  and  crying  over  the 
keys;  and  the  old  room — ever  so  plain — that  I  could 
hardly  remember,  even  when  I  tried.  And  all  at  once  a 
great  lump  came  up  into  my  throat.  I  could  n't  help  it. 
.  .  .  And  I  sobbed  out  loud— as  I  'd  sobbed  before  when 
I  was  a  little  girl.  And  then  .  .  ." 

The  tears,  never  wholly  subjugated  since  their  first 
turbulent  rebellion,  rose  up  swiftly  against  her  words  at 
the  recital  here.  She  made  a  valiant  endeavor  to  ride 
through  the  tumult  on  her  trembling  charger  of  speech, 
but  memory  plucked  at  the  bridle,  and  unhorsed  her  into 
the  hands  of  her  besetters ;  a  fair,  virginal  captive — beau- 
tiful under  subjection. 

"And  then  .  .  ."  he  said,  catching  up  the  girl's  own 
words,  and  simulating  a  careless  stroll  towards  the  win- 


44  THE  POST-GIRL 

dow  to  give  her  time,  ".  .  .  I  came  in— came  out,  1 
mean."  He  flicked  a  chord  off  the  treble  end  of  the  key- 
board in  passing  that  drew  the  girl's  eyes  towards  him  at 
once,  watchful  through  tears.  "But  we  won't  talk  about 
that  part  of  the  business,  if  you  '11  be  so  good  as  not  to 
mind.  One  of  us  needs  kicking  very  badly  for  his  share 
in  it,  and  knows  he  does."  He  stooped  down  to  resolve 
the  chord  briefly  with  both  hands,  and  spun  round,  out- 
spread against  the  piano,  with  his  fingers  behind  him, 
touching  extreme  treble  and  bass.  Only  an  inactive  tear 
or  two  on  the  girl's  lashes  marked  the  recent  revolt,  and 
the  way  to  her  eyes  lay  clear.  He  sent  his  words 
pleasantly  out  to  them  at  once  in  friendly  hazard.  "You 
don't  mean  to  say  you  're  a  neighbor  of  mine  ?"  he  sug- 
gested, smiling  interested  inquiry  from  his  spread-eagle 
pinnacle  by  the  piano,  ".  .  .  and  I  have  n't  known  it  all 
this  time?"  For  who  was  this  strange  nocturnal  vis- 
itant of  his,  with  a  soul  for  the  sound  of  things? 
".  .  .  Or  are  you  .  .  ."—the  alternative  came  twinkling 
in  time  to  join  the  previous  inquiry  under  one  note  of  in- 
terrogation—"just  a  ...  spawer,  I  think  they  call  it, 
like  me?" 

The  girl  shook  her  head  at  the  latter  suggestion. 

"It 's  my  home  here,"  she  said. 

"At  Cliff  Wrangham  ?"  he  asked,  and  brought  his  right 
leg  over  the  left  towards  her,  in  attitude  of  increased  at- 
tention. 

"No-o." 

She  must  have  felt  a  sense  of  isolation  in  abiding  by 
that  one  word ;  as  though  it  were  a  gate  snecking  her  off 
from  the  Spawer's  friendly  reach  in  conversation,  for  she 
passed  through  it  almost  immediately  and  added  the  spe- 
cific correction :  "At  Ullbrig." 


THE  POST-GIRL  45 

"Ah !"  His  internal  eye  was  soaring  over  the  Ullbrig 
of  his  remembrance  in  an  endeavor  to  pounce  upon  stray 
points  of  association  for  the  girl's  identity.  "I  'm 
afraid,"  he-  said,  "that  I  don't  know  my  Ullbrig  very 
well.  It  's  a  part  of  my  education  here  that  's  been  sadly 
neglected.  But  you  were  n't  going  to  walk  back  there 
alone?  To-night,  I  mean?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  mild  surprise. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  told  him. 

"Jove!"  he  said.    "Are  n't  you  afraid?" 

"Afraid?"  She  gathered  the  word  dubiously  off  his 
lips.  "What  of?" 

"Oh,"  he  laughed.  "Of  nothing  at  all.  That  's  what 
we  're  most  afraid  of,  as  a  rule,  is  n't  it?  Of  the  dark, 
for  instance." 

She  smiled,  shaking  her  head. 

"I  'm  not  afraid  of  that,"  she  said. 

"Ah,"  he  decided  enviously,  "you  're  no  newspaper 
reader.  That  's  plain."  Then  taking  new  stock  of  in- 
quiry. "But  we  're  not  in  the  habit  of  passing  by  ... 
at  this  time,  are  we?"  he  asked.  "I  thought  all  good 
people  were  between  the  blankets  by  nine  in  the 
country  ?" 

A  queer  little  flame  of  resolve  began  fighting  for  estab- 
lishment about  her  lips,  like  the  flickers  of  a  newly- 
lighted  taper,  that  burnt  up  suddenly  in  speech. 

"I  was  n't  ...  passing  by,"  she  said,  the  flame  red- 
dening her  to  candor. 

"No?" 

"I  came  ...  on  purpose." 

The  Spawer's  eyebrows  ran  up  in  a  ruffle  of  surprise 
and  friendly  amusement. 

"Not  .      .  to  hear  me  ?" 


46  THE  POST-GIRL 

She  clasped  her  teeth  in  repression  upon  her  lower  lip, 
and  nodded  her  head. 

"And  you  Ve  actually  trudged  all  the  way  out  from 
Ullbrig?" 

"It  's  nothing,"  she  said  apologetically. 

"But  at  night!"  he  expostulated,  in  friendly  concern. 

"There  was  no  other  time  .  .  ."  she  explained.  "Be- 
sides ...  I  thought —  They  said  ...  it  was  only  after 
supper." 

"Only  after  supper?"  echoed  the  Spawer.  "What  's 
that  ?  Indigestion  ?  Nightmare  ?" 

"The  music,"  she  said. 

"I  see."  He  laughed,  nodding  his  head  sagaciously. 
"So  they  Ve  got  my  time-table.  And  I  thought  I  was  n't 
known  of  a  soul !  What  an  ostrich  I  Ve  been!" 

"Everybody  knows  of  you,"  she  said,  in  wonder  he 
should  think  otherwise. 

"I  'm  sure  they  do,"  he  assented.  "What  sort  of  a 
character  do  they  give  me?  .  .  .  Would  just  about  hang 
me  at  the  Assizes,  I  suppose  ?" 

"They  say  you  're  a  great  musician  .  .  ."  she  said, 
with  watchful  eyes  of  inquiry. 

"Palestrina !"  he  exclaimed.  "However  did  they  come 
by  the  truth  ?" 

".  .  .  And  no  one  can  play  like  you.  .  .  ." 

"Yes?" 

".  .  .  And  you  Ve  come  here  away  from  people  to 
compose  a  great  piece  .  .  .  and  don't  want  anybody  to 
...  to  hear  you." 

The  tide  of  her  words  ebbed  suddenly  there,  leaving 
her  eyes  stranded  upon  his.  The  same  thought  came  up 
simultaneously  to  them  both. 


THE  POST-GIRL  47 

"And  so  ...  that  's  why  you  did  n't  come." 

She  dropped  her  eyes. 

"I  knew  it  was  mean,"  she  said  humbly,  "taking  things 
when  your  back  was  turned.  I  felt  like  stealing,  at  first. 
I  could  n't  listen  for  shame." 

"And  what  '11  be  to  pay  for  it  all  ...  when  you  get 
back?"  said  he. 

The  fringe  of  her  lashes  was  raised  while  her  eyes  re- 
connoitred, and  dropped  again. 

"Nothing,"  she  told  him. 

"And  no  questions  asked  ?" 

"No." 

"And  nobody  sitting  up  for  you,  ready  to  put  the  clock 
on  half  an  hour,  and  point  a  finger  at  it  when  you 
return  ?" 

"No-o.  .  .  ."  She  twirled  the  tumbler  jerkily  between 
soft  thumb  and  forefinger.  "They  think  I  'm  in  bed. 
And  I  did  go,"  with  a  sudden  resurrection  of  self-right- 
eousness. "Only" — the  self-righteousness  went  under 
here — ".  .  .  when  they  were  all  asleep  ...  I  slipped 
out  and  came  to  Cliff  Wrangham." 

"So-o-o !"  said  the  Spawer,  spraying  his  comprehen- 
sion hugely  this  time  with  the  word,  as  though  it  were  a 
shower-bath  to  enlightenment.  "That  's  the  secret  of 
things  at  last,  is  it  ?"  His  eyes  were  spinning  on  the  girl 
like  peg-tops  in  delicious  amusement.  "And  I  suppose 
I  've  got  to  guard  it  with  my  life's  blood  ?" 

A  grateful  face  flashed  thankfulness  up  at  him  for  its 
relief  from  the  necessity  of  appeal. 

"Here  's  the  bond,"  said  he.  "Subscribe,  and  say 
done."  He  threw  out  an  open  palm  of  contract  across 
the  table,  and  the  small  hand  crept  into  it  with  the  tim- 


48  THE  POST- GIRL 

orous,  large-hearted  trust  for  an  unfamiliar  shelter. 
"And  I  'm  afraid,"  he  said  self-reproachfully,  ''that 
you  've  torn  your  dress?" 

"Oh,  no,  ...  a  little."  She  made-believe  to  look  at 
her  skirt  between  the  table  and  sofa,  and  take  stock  of 
the  damage  done.  "It  's  nothing." 

"At  the  time,"  said  the  Spawer,  "it  sounded  terrible 
enough.  I  hope  it  is  n't  as  bad  as  the  sound." 

She  drew  up  what  appeared  to  be  the  ruined  remnants 
of  a  phylactery,  and  held  it  above  the  table-edge  for  his 
scrutiny,  saying:  "It  does  n't  matter,"  with  a  hopeful 
smile. 

"But  that  's  awful,"  he  said  distressfully. 

"It  's  only  an  old  skirt,"  she  explained,  making  light 
of  the  raiment  with  true  feminine  instinct,  lest  perhaps 
he  might  think  she  had  no  better.  "I  can  soon  mend  it." 

"Shall  I  fetch  you  a  needle  and  some  cotton?"  he 
asked,  in  a  penitential  voice.  "I  have  both  upstairs." 

The  girl's  eyes  made  a  quick  clutch  at  the  needle  and 
cotton,  but  her  lips  hung  back  meekly  to  a  suggestion  of 
pins,  with  some  murmur  about  "trouble." 

"Trouble !"  said  the  Spawer. 

He  spun  the  word  up  in  contemptuous  disregard  as 
though  it  were  a  shuttlecock,  and  slipped  blithely  up  the 
little  staircase.  A  second  or  so  later,  when  she  had 
heard  him  drop  the  matches  and  rake  over  the  carpet  for 
them  with  his  finger-ends,  and  weave  sundry  spiderous 
tracks  across  the  ceiling,  he  was  down  again  trium- 
phantly extending  the  objects  of  his  quest. 

All  too  quickly  the  girl  whipped  the  serrated  edges  of 
serge  together,  while  he  watched  her — with  a  busy  back 
and  forth  of  needle— snapped  the  thread  round  a  deter- 


THE  POST-GIRL  49 

mined  small  finger,  shook  the  skirt  into  position,  and  rose 
(conscientiously  sheathing  the  needle  in  the  cotton  bob- 
bin), showing  parted  lips  for  gratitude  and  farewell. 
The  latter,  taking  the  Spawer  somewhat  by  surprise, 
awakened  all  at  once  his  dormant  solicitude. 

"But  you  're  not  going  .  .  .  now !"  he  said.  The  girl 
said  softly,  "If  he  pleased."  "Why,  you  have  n't  half 
finished!"  he  exclaimed,  pointing  to  the  desolate  tumbler, 
its  contents  untasted.  The  girl  looked  remorsefully  at 
the  object  of  her  neglect,  and  said,  still  more  softly,  "If 
he  did  n't  mind.  .  .  ." 

"Not  in  the  least,"  the  Spawer  reassured  her.  "But 
are  you  quite  sure,"  he  said  anxiously,  "that  you  're 
strong  enough  to  start  back — just  yet?  Do  you  think 
it  's  altogether  wise  ?" 

The  girl  thought  it  so  wise  that  the  Spawer  had  no 
alternative  but  to  accept  the  cotton  bobbin  from  her,  a 
thing  which  his  fingers  (in  their  concern  for  her  wel- 
fare) showed  a  certain  disinclination  to  do. 

"At  least,"  said  he,  "you  '11  let  me  see  you  back  as  far 
as  Hesketh's  corner  ?"  But  the  girl  said,  "Oh  no,  please 
.  .  .  and  thank  you.  ...  I  'm  accustomed  to  walk 
alone,"  so  once  again  he  felt  constrained  to  abide  by  her 
decision,  not  knowing  how  many  secret  considerations 
might  have  gone  to  the  making  of  it. 

"But  .  .  .  look  here,"  he  said,  in  a  conclusive  spurt  of 
candor,  brought  about  by  the  imminence  of  their  parting ; 
"...  we  're  not  saying  good-by  for  good,  are  we?" 

"I — I  hope  not,"  said  the  girl,  and  something  stirred 
her  lips  and  lashes  as  though  a  breeze  had  blown  across 
them. 

"Well,  I  hope  not  too,"  said  the  Spawer.     "For  that 


50  THE  POST- GIRL 

would  make  me  feel  sad.  I  must  n't  keep  you  any  longer 
now,  I  know,  for  I  don't  want  you  to  get  into  trouble; 
but  it  's  awfully  good  of  you  to  have  come,  and  believe 
me,  I  'm  really  grateful.  If  there  's  anything  in  music  I 
can  do  for  you,  I  want  you  to  know  that  you  've  only  to 
ask,  and  it  shall  be  done  for  you  with  pleasure.  Honest 
Injun.  You  won't  forget,  will  you?" 

The  girl  said  she  could  never  forget  .  .  .  his  kindness. 

"It  's  a  promise,  then?"  said  the  Spawer. 

Again  the  little  unseen  breath  blew  across  her  features 
at  the  question,  and  to  his  surprise  he  could  have  almost 
sworn  to  tears  upon  her  lashes  when  he  looked  up  for 
affirmation  in  the  girl's  eyes.  To  cover  any  confusion 
that  his  words  might  have  wrought,  he  put  out  a  friendly 
hand  for  parting. 

"All  right,"  said  he,  in  voice  of  cheerful  agreement. 
"So  that  's  settled,"  though  a  dozen  questions  were  fight- 
ing for  first  place  on  his  lips  as  he  said  it.  The  little 
brown  hand  stole  for  the  second  time  into  the  shelter  of 
his  own  with  a  solemnity  that,  at  other  moments,  he 
could  have  laughed  at,  and  a  moment  later  the  Spawer 
was  left  gazing  at  the  orchard  gate,  thrown  three  quar- 
ters open,  as  he  had  done  in  that  first  memorable  moment, 
with  the  girl's  soft  footsteps  merged  every  second  more 
deceptively  in  the  starry  stillness  of  night. 


CHAPTER  IV 

TT7HATEVER  the  Spawer  might  choose  to  say  of 
VV  himself  for  purposes  of  humor  (not,  I  am  afraid, 
an  invariable  pole-star  to  truth),  he  was  no  sluggard. 
By  agreement,  dated  the  first  night  of  his  arrival,  Jeff 
Dixon  was  to  get  a  penny  a  day  for  bringing  up  the  bath- 
water and  having  him  into  it  at  seven  in  the  morning. 
Something  short  of  the  hour  Jeff  would  stumble  up  the 
little  steep  staircase,  with  his  tongue  out,  behind  a  big 
bucket  of  cold  water  (the  last  of  three  drawn  to  get  the 
full  freshness  of  the  pump),  and  anticipating  a  few  min- 
utes in  his  statement  of  the  time,  make  preliminary 
clamor  for  the  Spawer's  acknowledgment  before  depart- 
ing to  fetch  the  hot.  From  which  moment  forth  the 
Spawer  was  a  marked  man,  whom  no  subterfuge  or 
earthly  ingenuity  could  save.  Once  a  drowsy  voice 
begged  Jeff  to  be  so  good  as  to  call  again. 

"An'  loss  my  penny !"  cried  Jeff,  with  fine  commercial 
scorn  at  the  suggestion.  "Nay,  we  '11  'ave  ye  oot  o'  bed 
an'  all,  noo  we  Ve  gotten  started  o'  ye." 

And  tramped  diabolically  downstairs  after  the  second 
bucket. 

But  though  a  little  comedy  of  this  sort,  now  and  again, 
served  to  test  the  validity  of  the  agreement,  and  show  the 
Spawer  that  nothing — short  of  repealing  the  penny — 
could  save  him  from  the  inexorable  machinery  that  his 
own  hand  had  set  in  motion,  there  was  little  real  need  of 


52  THE  POST-GIRL 

the  bond,  except  to  guarantee  that  the  bath-water  should 
be  up  to  time.  More  often  than  not  Jeff  came  upon  a 
man  alertly  drawn  up  in  bed,  with  a  full  score  spread 
across  his  knees,  who  had  been  writing  and  erasing  hard 
since  sunrise. 

Early  in  the  morning  after  the  girl's  visit  the  sun 
peeped  over  the  Spawer's  sill  according  to  custom,  and 
the  Spawer  jumped  out  of  bed  to  let  him  in.  Already 
Nature's  symphony  was  in  full  swing — a  mighty,  cres- 
cive,  spinning  movement  of  industry,  borne  up  to  him  on 
a  whirr  of  indefatigable  wings.  The  sun  had  cleared  the 
cliff  railings  and  was  traveling  merrily  upward  on  an 
unimpeded  course,  though  still  the  grassland  lay  grey  in 
the  shadow  beneath  its  glistening  quilt  of  dew,  and  every 
spider's  web  hung  silver-weighted  like  a  net  new-drawn 
with  treasure  from  the  sea.  He  stayed  by  the  window  a 
space,  and  then  let  go  the  curtain  with  an  amused,  rem- 
iniscent laugh. 

"I  wonder  who  on  earth  she  is  ?"  he  said. 

He  scooped  up  the  bulky  armful  of  music-sheets  that 
constituted  his  present  labors  at  the  concerto,  and  went 
back  to  bed  with  them.  But  though  he  made  a  deter- 
mined desk  of  his  knees  and  spread  the  papers  out  with  a 
business-like  adjustment  of  pages,  the  work  prospered  but 
poorly  when  it  came  to  the  pencil.  After  a  short  spell  of 
it  he  sat  back  in  bed,  with  his  hands  locked  under  his 
neck  staring  at  the  window.  For  the  events  of  last  night 
were  a  too  inviting  vintage  to  be  left  uncorked  and  un- 
tasted,  and  out  of  this  glowing  wine  of  remembrance  he 
attempted  to  win  back  the  girl's  face,  and  did  not  alto- 
gether succeed.  He  reclaimed  certain  shifting  impres- 
sions of  red  lips  exaggeratedly  curled;  of  great  round 


THE  POST- GIRL  53 

eyes ;  of  multiplied  freckles  about  the  brows  and  nose ;  of 
a  startling  white  throat  beyond  where  the  sun  had  domin- 
ion ;  of  a  shabby  blue  Tam-o'-Shanter  and  a  perfect  mid- 
night of  hair — but  all  of  them  seen  grotesquely,  as  it 
might  be  at  the  bottom  of  the  cup,  with  himself  blowing 
on  the  wine. 

"The  thing  is,"  he  decided,  "I  was  a  fool  not  to  stare 
harder  and  ask  more  questions.  This  comes  of  trying  to 
act  the  gentleman." 

Duly  before  seven  came  Jeff  Dixon  stumbling  up  the 
staircase,  and  dumped  the  first  bucket  down  at  the 
Spawer's  door  with  a  ringing  clash  of  handle. 

"Noo  then,"  he  called  under  the  door,  when  he  had 
summoned  the  Spawer  lustily  by  name,  and  hit  the  panel 
several  resounding  flat-handers  (as  specified  in  the  agree- 
ment). "It  's  tonned  [turned]  seven  o'clock,  an'  another 
gran',  fine  day  for  ye  an'  all.  Arny  's  gotten  ye  some 
mushrooms — some  right  big  uns  an'  some  little  conny 
[tiny]  uns,  a  gret  basket  full  oot  o'  big  field.  Will  ye  'ev 
'em  for  breakfast?" 

"Will  I?"  The  Spawer  shot  together  the  loose  sheets 
gathered  in  attendance  upon  an  idle  muse,  and  tossed 
them  dexterously  on  to  the  nearest  chair,  as  though  they 
were  a  pancake.  "Ah,  me  bhoy !  me  bhoy !"  he  called  out, 
in  the  rich,  mellow  brogue  of  one  whose  heart  was  on  a 
sudden  turned  to  sunlight. 

"Ay,  will  ye?"  inquired  the  mouth  behind  the  door- 
crack. 

"Ay,  wull  Oi?"  echoed  the  voice  of  glowing  fervor. 
"Wull  Oi,  bedad!  me  bhoy?  Mushrooms,  ye  say!  Is  't 
me  the  bhoy  for  mushrooms !  Arrah,  thin,  me  bonny 
bhoy,  is  't  me  the  bhoy  for  mushrooms !" 


54  THE  POST-GIRL 

After  a  pause :  "D'  ye  mean  yes  ?"  asked  the  mouth 
dubiously,  and  with  meekness. 

"Ah,  phwat  a  bhoy  it  is  to  read  the  very  sowl  o'  man  an' 
shpake  it!  Yis  's  the  word,  bi  the  beard  o'  St.  Pathrick, 
iv  he  had  wan  (which  Oi  'm  doubtin'),  an'  a  small,  incon- 
siderable jug  o'  rale  cowld  boilin'  wather  whin  ye  retoorn 
convanient  wid  yer  next  bucket,  me  bhoy,  bi  yer  lave  an' 
savin'  yer  prisince !" 

"Will  yon  little  un  wi'  yaller  stripes  do?"  says  the 
mouth,  brimming  with  the  enthusiasm  of  willing,  and 
making  from  the  door-crack  for  immediate  departure. 

Whereupon,  in  receipt  of  the  Spawer's  agreement,  the 
boots  stumbled  down  the  stairs  again,  as  though  there 
were  no  feet  in  them,  but  had  been  thrown  casually  from 
top  to  bottom.  A  minute  or  so  later,  when  they  had  stag- 
gered up  with  the  second  bucket,  and  been  cast  down 
again  to  fetch  the  jug,  and  come  back  with  it,  the  owner 
of  them  bestrode  all  these  accumulated  necessities  laid 
out  upon  the  little  landing,  and  let  himself  into  the  Spaw- 
er's room— a  blue-eyed,  fair-haired  Saxon  of  thirteen, 
with  white  teeth  and  a  quick  smile,  sharpened  like  a  razor 
on  the  cunning  whetstone  of  the  district. 

"  'Ere  's  yer  cold,"  said  he,  stooping  to  lift  it  in  after 
him.  "An'  'ere  's  yer  warm,"  bringing  to  view  the  steam- 
ing wooden  pail,  with  as  much  reminiscence  of  milk 
about  the  water  as  we  have  to  pay  for  by  the  gill  in 
town.  "An'  'ere  's  yer  rale  cold  boilin'.  'Ow  div  ye  fin' 
yersen  this  mornin'?" 

"In  bed,"  says  the  Spawer,  "thanking  you  kindly, 
where  I  put  myself  last  night." 

"Noo  then,  noo  then !"  with  that  indulgent  tone  of 
grown-up  wisdom  which  is  the  birthright  of  every  baby 


THE  POST-GIRL  55 

in  Ullbrig,  and  on  which  it  practises  its  first  lisp ;  "are  ye 
agate  o'  that  road  already?  Ye  mun  'a  got  the  steel  i' 
bed  wi'  ye,  ah  think — ye  seem  strange  an'  sharp,  ti-morn." 
He  pulled  the  bath  from  its  hiding  under  the  bed,  set  the 
mats  about  it,  and  brought  the  pails  over  within  reach. 
"Noo,  it  's  all  ready  an'  waitin',  so  ye  'ad  n't  need 
to  start  shuttin'  yer  eyes.  Let  's  see  ye  movin',  an'  ah  '11 
be  away." 

The  Spawer  made  a  feeble  shuffle  of  legs  under  the 
blankets,  and  smiled  with  the  seraphic  content  of  one  who 
has  done  his  duty. 

"Nay,  ah  s'll  want  to  see  ye  on  end,  an'  all,"  Jeff  said 
sternly,  "before  ah  gan  mi  ways.  Come  noo,  Mr.  Wynne 
— one,  two,  three !" 

Thus  adjured,  the  Spawer  found  strength  to  raise  his 
eyelids  after  a  few  moments  of  bland  inertness  under 
Jeff's  regard,  and  turned  out  affably  (with  them  down 
again)  on  to  the  pegged  rug  alongside. 

"That  's  better,"  said  Jeff,  with  conciliatory  admira- 
tion. 

"Is  it?"  the  Spawer  inquired  sweetly,  sitting  down  on 
the  bedside  to  think  over  the  matter,  and  rubbing  form 
contemplatively  into  his  hocks.  "Oh!  .  .  .  Then  get  me 
the  third  razor  from  the  right-hand  side  of  the  case,  and 
I  '11  kill  myself.  Also  the  strop  and  the  brush  and  jug 
and  soap-tube.  .  .  ." 

"D'  ye  mean  a  shave  ?"  asked  Jeff,  with  some  curiosity. 

"Merely  another  name  for  it,"  the  Spawer  told  him. 

"What  div  ye  want  ti  get  shaved  for?"  Jeff  persisted. 

"Oh!".  .  .  The  Spawer  sifted  a  few  replies  under 
rapid  survey,  as  though  he  were  rolling  a  palmful  of 
grain,  and  picked  out  one  at  random.  "...  For  fun." 


56  THE  POST-GIRL 

"Ah  thought  ye  was  n't  gannin'  to  shave  no  more  while 
ye  'd  gotten  that  there  piece  o'  yours  written !" 

"Whatever  put  that  idea  into  your  head?"  asked  the 
Spawer,  in  surprise. 

"You,"  said  Jeff,  with  forceful  directness.  "It  was  you 
telt  me." 

"I?  How  wicked  of  me  to  tell  such  a  story,"  the 
Spawer  said  warmly. 

"Ah  do  believe  you  're  gannin'  after  some  young  lady 
or  other,"  Jeff  declared,  by  a  quick  inspiration. 

"How  dare  you,"  said  the  Spawer,  rising  from  the  bed 
in  protest,  "try  to  put  such  ideas  into  the  head  of  an  inno- 
cent young  man,  old  enough  to  be  your  father.  Hither 
with  the  razor  at  once,"  he  commanded,  "and  let  's  shave 
your  head." 

But  inside,  out  of  sight  behind  all  this  laughter,  he  sent 
a  knowing,  sagacious  glance  to  his  soul. 

"The  young  divil !"  he  said. 

He  shaved,  like  the  Chinese  executioners,  with  des- 
patch; whistled  blithely  through  his  bath  as  though  he 
were  a  linnet  hung  out  in  the  sun,  and  was  downstairs  as 
soon  as  might  be.  The  little  room  greeted  him  cheerfully 
in  its  cool  breakfast  array,  holding  forth  a  great,  heav- 
enly-scented garland  of  wall-flowers  and  sweet-williams 
and  mignonette— for  all  the  world  like  some  dear,  dimin- 
utive, old-fashioned  damsel  in  white  muslin— and  his  eye 
softened  unconsciously  to  an  appreciative  smile.  There, 
too,  was  the  sofa  consecrate  to  Dixon.  He  looked  at 
it  with  a  more  conscious  extension  of  smile — thinking,  no 
doubt,  of  Dixon.  Then  he  shook  the  bell  for  breakfast, 
being  an-hungered,  and  smelling  the  mushrooms. 

The  door  flew  wide  to  Miss  Bates'  determined  toe,  as 


THE  POST-GIRL  57 

she  entered  with  the  mushrooms  in  company  with  the 
bacon  and  toast  and  steaming  hot  milk  and  coffee  on  the 
big,  battered  tray  of  black  Japan,  securely  held  at  either 
foremost  corner  with  a  salmon-colored  fist. 

Now  Miss  Bates  was  Dixon's  orphan  niece,  whose  case 
deserves  all  the  pity  you  can  afford  to  give  it,  as  we  shall 
see.  Left  quite  alone  in  the  world  by  the  death  of  her 
father  (who  had  no  more  thought  for  her  future  than  to 
fall  off  his  horse,  head  downwards,  in  the  dark),  she  was 
most  cruelly  abducted  by  her  wicked  uncle  to  Cliff 
Wrangham  (much  against  her  will — and  his  own),  and 
imprisoned  there  under  the  humiliating  necessity  of  hav- 
ing to  work  like  one  of  the  family.  You  must  not  call 
her  the  scullery-maid  or  the  dairy-maid  or  the  kitchen- 
maid,  but  rather,  with  the  blood-right  to  give  back  word 
for  word  and  go  about  her  day's  work  grumbling,  you 
must  appoint  her  a  place  among  the  ranks  of  unhappy 
heroines — reduced,  distressed,  and  down-trodden  be- 
neath the  iron-shod  heel  of  labor.  She  was,  indeed,  the 
persecuted  damosel  of  mediaeval  romance,  brought  up  to 
modern  weight  and  size  and  standard — not  the  least  of 
her  many  afflictions  being  that  she  was  forcibly  christened 
Mary  Anne  by  heartless  parents,  while  yet  a  helpless  in- 
fant, and  that  nobody  called  her  anything  else.  Her  lips 
were  full  of  prophetic  utterances  as  to  last  straws ;  as  to 
what  certain  people  (not  so  very  many  miles  away) 
would  find  for  themselves  one  morning  (not  so  very  far 
ahead)  when  they  got  up  and  came  downstairs,  and  said, 
"Where  's  somebody  ?"  and  never  an  answer,  and  no  need 
to  say  then  they  were  sorry,  as  if  they  had  n't  been 
warned ! 

"Now  who,"  the  Spawer  inquired  craftily,  dipping  a 


58  THE  POST-GIRL 

liberal  measurement  of  spoon  into  the  mushrooms,  and 
smiling  confidentially  at  Miss  Bates,  who  was  balanced 
gently  by  the  door,  with  its  edge  grasped  in  her  red  right 
hand,  and  her  cheek  pressed  touchingly  against  the 
knuckles— "who  is  the  prettiest  girl  in  Ullbrig?" 

Miss  Bates  threw  up  her  nostrils  at  this  direct  challenge 
of  romance,  and  squirmed  with  such  maidenly  desire  to 
insist  her  own  claims  through  silence,  that  the  tray  in  her 
left  hand  banged  about  her  knees  like  distant  thunder. 

"Cliff  Wrangham  allus  reckons  ti  count  in  wi'  Ool- 
brig,"  she  said,  coyly. 

"But  leaving  Cliff  Wrangham  out  of  the  question,"  sug- 
gested the  Spawer,  in  a  voice  of  bland  affability. 

Miss  Bates'  knees  stiffened. 

"Ah  see  no  ways  o'  doin'  it,"  she  declared,  tossing  her 
head  as  though  she  were  champing  a  bit. 

So  the  Spawer  was  left  smiling  over  his  cup,  knowing 
no  more  about  the  blue  Tam-o'-Shanter  than  ever.  He  en- 
joyed his  mushrooms  very  much,  and  went  twice  to  coffee. 
Then,  breakfast  over,  he  crossed  over  to  the  piano,  ran  his 
hands  over  the  keys,  and  set  himself  to  his  daily  occupa- 
tion without  loss  of  time. 

Thick  saffron  of  sunlight  filled  the  little  room.  Down 
below  the  window-sash,  about  the  shelterless  roots  of  the 
rose-tree,  moored  along  the  wall  line  in  barge-like  flotilla 
and  at  anchor  over  the  hard,  sunbaked  path,  lay  gath- 
ered the  Spawer's  faithful  band  of  feathered  friends, 
awaiting  recurrence  of  the  bounty  so  liberally  bestowed 
upon  them  at  meals.  Each  time  the  blind  stirred  they  up- 
rose in  spires  of  expectant  beak,  whereat  the  Spawer, 
squinting  sideways,  would  see  the  window  space  set  with 
jeweled,  vigilant  eyes,  while  afloat  on  the  wavy  green  bor- 


THE  POST- GIRL  59 

der  of  grass  beyond  the  pathway  a  snow-white  convoy  of 
ducklings  drew  their  bills  from  beneath  fleecy  breasts  and 
got  under  soft  cackle  of  steam,  ready  to  sail  for  the  win- 
dow at  the  first  signal  of  crumbs. 

After  his  departure,  for  an  hour  or  more  nothing  but 
sunlight  stirred  the  Spawer's  blind.  Then  the  voice  of 
Miss  Bates  was  heard  in  close  proximity  outside,  and  the 
next  moment  the  Spawer's  first  crop  of  Cliff  Wrang- 
ham  letters  was  extended  to  him  in  Miss  Bates'  gentle 
fist. 

"Three  letters,  a  post-card,  an'  a  fortygraft,"  said  Miss 
Bates,  relaxing  the  proprietary  clench  of  thumb  (tight- 
ened recently  for  dominion  over  the  downcast  Lewis), 
and  suffering  the  Spawer  to  gather  them  from  her  con- 
fiding hand  with  all  the  romantic  symbolism  of  a  bouquet. 
"It  's  good  to  be  you  an'  'ev  letters  sent  ye  wi'oot  nobody 
pesterin'  where  they  come  fro'.  Will  there  be  onnything 
for  'post'  to  tek  back  ?" 

"Let  's  see  .  .  ."  said  the  Spawer,  skimming  the  post- 
card more  rapidly  than  Miss  Bates  had  done  before  him. 
"Is  he  waiting?" 

"It  's  not  a  'e,"  Miss  Bates  replied,  with  no  manifest 
relish  of  the  fact.  "An'  she  's  stood  at  kitchen  door. 
'Appen  she  's  waitin'  to  be  asked  twice  to  come  in  an'  sit 
'ersen  down — bud  she  '11  'ave  to  wait.  Once  is  good 
enough  for  most  folk,  an'  it  mun  do  for  'er." 

The  Spawer  finished  the  post-card,  tossing  it  on  the 
table,  and  forced  his  fingers  beneath  the  flap  of  the  next 
envelope. 

"What?"  said  he,  with  a  smile  of  amused  surprise.  "Is 
the  postman  a  lady,  then  ?" 

"Nay,"  repudiated  Miss  Bates,  stripping  the  amusement 


60  THE  POST-GIRL 

off  his  surprise,  and  treating  the  question  in  grim  earnest. 
"She  'd  onnly  like  to  be.  It  'd  suit  'er  a  deal  better  nor 
tramplin'  about  roads  wi'  a  brown  bag  ower  'er  back." 

"It  sounds  charming  enough,"  said  the  Spawer,  throw- 
ing himself  with  a  diabolical  heartiness  into  the  idea. 
"What  sort  of  a  postman  is  she?" 

"No  different  fro'  nobody  else,"  Miss  Bates  gives 
grudgingly,  "though  she  's  'ods  [holds]  'er  chin  where 
most  folk's  noses  is.  They  gie  'er  six  shillin'  a  week  for 
carryin'  letters  to  Cliff  Wrangham  an'  Far  Wrangham  an' 
round  by  Shippus— an'  it  mud  be  ten  bi  t'  way  she  sets 
up." 

"Six  shillings  a  week,"  the  Spawer  mused  wonderingly. 
"Just  a  shilling  a  day  and  be  a  good  girl  for  nothing  on 
Sunday.  She  '11  need  all  the  pride  she  can  muster  to  help 
her  through  on  that." 

"There  's  twenty  for  t'  job  onny  day  she  teks  into  'er 
'ead  to  leave  it,"  Miss  Bates  reflected,  with  callous  indiffer- 
ence. "She 's  n'  occasion  to  keep  it  agen  [unless]  she  likes." 

The  Spawer  put  down  the  first  letter  and  opened  the 
second.  It  was  a  bill.  "There  '11  be  no  answer  to  this," 
he  said  grimly,  and  passed  on  to  the  third.  He  gave  one 
glance  at  the  green  Helvetian  stamps  under  the  Luzern 
post-marks,  and  toyed  with  it  irresolutely  unopened.  "I 
don't  think  the  post  need  wait,"  he  said,  this  time  casting 
the  office  considerately  into  the  neuter  gender. 

"Ah  '11  tell  'er  to  gan,  then,"  Miss  Bates  decided,  with  a 
foretaste  of  the  asperity  that  would  characterise  the  dis- 
missal. 

"Please,"  said  the  Spawer.  "With  my  thanks  for  her 
kindness  in  waiting." 

"There  's  na  kindness  in  it,"  M1ss  Bates  disclaimed. 


THE  POST-GIRL  61 

"She  's  got  to  gan  back,  onny  road.  An'  'appen  she 
would  n't  'ave  offered  bud  ah  was  ower  sharp  to  call  of 
'er  before  she  'd  chance  to  get  away.  She  mun  gan  'er 
ways  ti  Far  Wrangham,  then." 

The  Spawer  had  opened  the  third  envelope,  and  Miss 
Bates  was  blowing  herself  out  in  great  gusts  like  a  stren- 
uous candle,  fighting  hard  against  extinction,  when  she 
heard  herself  suddenly  recalled. 

"After  all,"  he  said,  "I  'm  going  to  be  a  woman  and 
change  my  mind.  Who  writes  quickly  writes  double,  and 
saves  two  pages  of  apology.  Then  I  can  get  back  to  work 
with  a  clear  conscience." 

"Ah  '11  tell  'er  she  's  got  to  stop,  then,"  said  Miss  Bates. 
"An'  if  ye  '11  ring  bell  when  ye  've  finished,  Lewis  '11  let 
me  know,  an'  ah  '11  come  for  letter.  Ye  need  n't  trouble  to 
bring  it." 

She  blew  herself  out  to  total  extinction  this  time,  and 
the  Spawer,  throwing  a  leg  over  the  table-end,  turned  his 
attention  to  the  letter  in  hand — a  thin  sheet  of  foreign 
note-paper,  covered  on  three  of  its  pages  with  a  firm  femi- 
nine handwriting.  He  read  it  very  carefully  and  earnestly, 
his  eyes  running  from  end  to  end  of  the  lines  like  setters 
in  a  turnipfield,  as  though  they  followed  a  scent,  till  they 
brought  up  to  a  standstill  by  the  signature.  Then  he  took 
up  the  photograph. 

It  was  the  face  of  a  girl,  and  he  studied  it  in  such  still- 
ness and  concentration  that  his  eyelids,  lowered  motion- 
less over  the  downward  gaze,  gave  him  the  semblance  of 
a  sleeper.  Without  being  beautiful,  the  face  had  beauty, 
but  though  it  took  all  its  features  under  individual  scru- 
tiny, it  seemed,  less  as  though  he  were  concerned  with 
their  intrinsic  worth  than  that  he  was  searching  through 


62  THE  POST-GIRL 

them  the  answer  to  a  hidden  train  of  inquiry.  Whether 
he  came  near  it  or  not  would  be  difficult  to  tell.  The  smile 
with  which  he  looked  up  at  last  and  dispersed  the  brood- 
ing cloud  of  concentration  might  have  been  purely  recol- 
lective,  and  with  nothing  of  the  oracular  about  it ;  for  it 
set  him  straightway  to  pen  and  ink  and  writing-paper, 
staying  with  him  the  while,  and  through  the  next  few  min- 
utes the  sound  of  his  industry  was  never  still.  Not  until 
well  over  on  the  fourth  page  did  the  pen  stay  behind  in  the 
ink-pot,  as  he  sat  back  to  review  what  was  written.  Then 
the  pen  was  rapidly  withdrawn  again,  to  subscribe  his 
name,  and  he  addressed  the  letter : 

"Miss  WEMYSS, 
Luzernerhof, 
Luzern, 

Switzerland." 

With  this  in  his  hand,  and  the  big  bath  towel  and  red 
bathing  drawers  slung  over  his  arm  from  their  drying 
place  on  the  hot  sill,  he  made  off  down  the  baked  pathway, 
whistling  pleasantly  like  a  new  pied  piper — a  whole 
throng  of  feathered  followers  at  his  heels.  By  the 
wooden  gate,  where  the  red-tiled  pump-walk  makes  junc- 
tion with  the  front  path  at  the  kitchen  end,  Miss  Bates 
waylaid  him,  holding  out  damp  semi-wiped  fingers,  and 
saying  an  expectant  "Thank  ye." 

"What  for?"  asked  the  Spawer,  trying  to  dodge  on 
either  side  of  her  ample  bosom  with  an  active  eye  for  the 
kitchen  door. 

"For  t'  letter,"  said  Miss  Bates,  unperturbed,  "if  ye  Ve 
written  it.  Ah  '11  gie  it  to  'er  as  she  gans  back." 


THE  POST- GIRL  63 

"Back  where  from?"  inquired  the  Spawer,  with  a  sud- 
den thirst  for  information. 

"Fro'  Far  Wrangham,"  Miss  Bates  told  him,  ".  .  .  wi' 
letters  for  Barclay.  But  she  '11  call  again  on  'er  way  'ome, 
an'  ah  '11  see  she  teks  it  an'  all,  then." 

"Thanks  .  .  ."  the  Spawer  decided  on  consideration, 
"but  I  think  I  '11  see  her  myself;  I  want  to  ask  about 
posts.  .  .  ." 

"There  's  nobbut  one,"  Miss  Bates  interposed  hurriedly, 
"an'  it  gans  out  at  'alf-past  four." 

"That  's  not  the  one  I  mean,"  the  Spawer  explained, 
and  tacked  on  very  quickly:  "Which  way  does  she  come 
back?" 

"It  's  none  so  easy  ti  say,"  Miss  Bates  parried.  "She 
mud  come  back  bi  Barclay's  road  ...  or  bi — bi" — the 
task  of  devising  a  second  route  being  somewhat  beyond 
her  powers  at  the  moment,  she  fell  back  upon  a  generality 
— "bi  some  other  road,"  adding  for  justification :  "She  'd 
come  thruff  [through]  'edge  an'  all  if  it  suited  'er." 

"It  's  on  my  way,  anyhow,"  the  Spawer  determined 
lightheartedly.  "I  '11  sit  on  Barclay's  gate  and  take  my 
chance." 

He  had  been  sitting  on  Barclay's  gate  some  time,  and 
would  have  sold  all  share  of  interest  in  the  chance  for  a 
wax  vesta,  when  suddenly  he  heard  the  stir  of  someone 
swiftly  coming,  and  turning  a  leisurely  head — with  a  hand 
laid  ready  to  drop  to  his  feet  when  they  should  reach  the 
gate — became  in  a  moment  keenly  alert  to  an  object  that 
showed  now  and  again  through  the  green  hedge :  a  moving 
object  that  was  neither  a  bird,  nor  a  blossom,  nor  a  butter- 
fly, ...  but  a  blue  Tam-o'-Shanter. 


CHAPTER  V 

Atf D  the  face  beneath  it  was  the  face  he  had  been  trying 
to  remodel  this  morning,  out  of  the  obstinate  stiff 
clays  of  remembrance.  There  were  the  dear,  kissable, 
candid  freckles,  powdered  in  pure  gold-dust  about  the 
bridge  of  the  nose  and  the  brows — each  one  a  minstrel  to 
truth ;  there  were  the  great  round  eyes,  shining  smoothly, 
with  the  black-brown  velvety  softness  of  bulrushes ;  there 
were  the  rapt  red  lips,  no  longer  baffling  his  gaze,  but 
steadfast  and  discernible;  there  was  the  big  beneficence 
of  hair;  the  oaten-tinted  cheeks,  showing  their  soft  sur- 
face-glint of  golden  down  where  the  sunlight  caught 
them;  the  little  pink  lobes;  the  tanned  russet  neck,  so 
sleek  and  slim  and  supple,  and  the  blue  Tam-o'-Shanter 
topping  all,  as  though  it  were  a  part  of  her,  and  had  never 
moved  since  last  the  Spawer  had  looked  upon  it. 

In  every  other  respect  she  was  the  same  girl  that  had 
sat  in  Dixon's  place  on  the  sofa  last  night.  She  wore  still 
the  simple  skirt  of  blue  serge,  cut  short  above  her  ankles 
for  freedom  in  walking  (showing  too,  at  close  quarters,  a 
cleverly-suppressed  seam  running  down  to  the  hem  on  the 
left  side,  like  a  zig-zag  of  lightning),  and  the  plain  print 
blouse,  pale  blue,  with  no  pattern  on  it,  ending  at  the 
throat  in  a  neat  white  collar  borrowed  from  the  masculine 
mode,  and  tied  with  a  little  flame  of  red  silk.  Only  the 
light  rain-proof  cape  was  wanting,  but  over  her  shoul- 
ders, in  place  of  it,  was  slung  the  broad  canvas  belt  of  a 


THE  POST-GIRL  65 

post-bag  that  flapped  bulkily  against  her  right  hip  as  she 
strode,  with  her  right  hand  dipped  out  of  sight  into  its 
capacious  pocket.  She  came  swinging  along  the  hedge  at 
a  fine,  healthy  pace,  as  though  the  sun  were  but  a  harm- 
less bright  new  penny,  making  rhythmic  advance  in  a  pair 
of  stubborn  little  square-toed  shoes,  stoutly  cobbled,  with 
Ja  pleasing  redcjence  of  Puritanism  about  their  austere  ex- 
tremities; and  so  into  the  Spawer's  presence,  all  uncon- 
scious and  unprepared. 

The  sight  of  him,  waiting  over  the  gate,  with  his  el- 
bows ruling  the  top  bar,  his  chin  upon  linked  fingers,  and 
a  leisurely  foot  hoisted  on  to  the  second  rail,  broke  the 
rhythm  of  her  step  for  an  instant  on  a  sudden  tide  of 
color,  and  brought  the  hand  out  of  the  bag  to  readjust  the 
shoulder-strap  in  a  quick  display  of  purpose.  But  she 
showed  no  frailties  of  embarrassment.  She  came  along 
with  simple  self-possession  to  the  greeting  point,  giving 
him  her  eyes  there  in  a  queer  little  indescribable  sidelong 
look  that  a  mere  man  might  ponder  over  for  a  lifetime 
and  never  know  the  meaning  of — a  queer  little  indescrib- 
able, smileless,  sidelong  look,  sent  out  under  her  lashes, 
that  had  nothing  of  fear  or  favor,  or  friendship  or  saluta- 
tion, or  embarrassment  about  it,  but  was  pure,  un- 
mingled,  ingenuous,  feminine,  stock-taking  curiosity,  as 
though  she  were  studying  him  dispassionately  from  behind 
a  loophole  and  calculating  on  his  conduct  with  the  most 
sublime,  delicious  indifference.  The  Spawer  could  have 
thrown  up  his  head  and  laughed  aloud  at  the  look.  Not 
in  any  spirit  of  ridicule — angels  and  ministers  of  grace 
defend  us! — but  with  fine  appreciative  enjoyment,  as  one 
laughs  for  sheer  pleasure  at  a  beautiful  piece  of  musical 

phrasing  or  an  unexpected  point  of  technique.    If  he  had 
5 


66  THE  POST- GIRL 

opened  the  gate  with  a  grave  mouth  and  let  her  through, 
not  a  doubt  but  she  would  have  passed  on  without  so 
much  as  the  presumption  of  an  eyelash  upon  their  last 
night's  relations,  and  never  even  looked  back  over  a 
shoulder.  But  he  stood  and  barred  the  way  with  his  un- 
yielding smile,  and  when  she  came  up  to  him :  "Are  n't 
you  going  to  speak  to  me?"  he  asked  meekly. 

At  that  the  quick  light  of  recognition  and  acknowledg- 
ment poured  through  the  loophole.  Not  all  the  gathered 
sunbeams,  had  the  girl  been  of  stained  glass,  could  have 
flooded  her  to  a  more  surpassing  friendly  radiance  than 
did  her  own  inward  smile.  No  word  accompanied  it,  as 
if,  indeed,  with  such  a  perfect  medium  for  expression,  any 
were  needed.  She  drew  up  to  the  gate,  and  casting  her- 
self into  a  sympathetic  reproduction  of  his  attitude  at  a 
discreet  distance  down  the  rail,  shaded  a  glance  of 
gentle  curiosity  at  him  under  her  velvety  thickness  of 
lashes. 

"To  think,"  said  the  Spawer,  looking  at  her  with  in- 
credulous enjoyment,  "here  I  Ve  been  waiting  innocently 
for  the  post,  and  wondering  what  it  would  be  like  when 
it  came,  and  making  up  my  mind  it  never  was  coming — 
and  it  's  you  all  the  time." 

"Did  n't  you  know  ?" 

"Sorra  a  word." 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you  all  the  time  .  .  .  last  night,  who 
I  was." 

"I  wanted  badly  to  ask." 

"But  I  dared  n't." 

"And  I  dared  n't  either.  What  a  couple  of  cowards 
we  've  been.  Let  's  be  brave  now,  shall  we,  to  make  up 
for  it  ?  I  '11  ask  and  you  shall  tell  me.  Who  are  you  ?" 


THE  POST-GIRL  67 

She  dipped  an  almost  affectionate  hand  into  the  post- 
bag,  and  extended  it  partly  by  way  of  presentation. 

"I  'm  the  post-girl,"  she  said. 

He  looked  at  the  bag,  and  then  along  the  extended  arm 
to  her. 

"Really?"  he  asked,  visibly  uncertain  that  the  post-bag 
was  not  merely  part  of  a  pleasing  masquerade,  or  that 
the  girl  might  not  have  put  herself  voluntarily  under  its 
brown  yoke  for  some  purpose  as  inexplicable  as  the 
trudging  to  Cliff  Wrangham  by  starlight. 

"Really  and  truly,"  she  said.  "I  know  I  ought  to  have 
told  you  ...  at  first.  But  I  thought,  perhaps  .  .  ."  She 
plucked  at  a  blade  of  grass,  and  biting  it  with  her  small, 
milk-white  teeth,  studied  the  bruised  green  rib  with  low- 
ered eyes.  ".  .  .  Thought  perhaps  you  'd  taken  me  for 
somebody  different.  And  I  was  frightened  you  might  be 
offended  when  you  knew  who  it  was." 

In  the  clear  frankness  of  her  confession,  and  the  soft, 
inquiring  fearlessness  of  eye  with  which  she  encountered 
his  glance  at  its  conclusion,  there  was  no  tincture  of 
abasement.  As  she  stood  there  by  the  gate,  with  the 
broad  badge  of  servitude  across  her  girl's  breast,  she 
seemed  glorified  for  the  moment  into  a  living  text,  at- 
testing eloquently  that  it  is  not  toil  that  dishonors,  and 
that  the  social  differences  in  labor  come  but  from  the  la- 
borer. In  such  wise  the  Spawer  interpreted  her,  and  em- 
braced the  occasion  for  belief  with  an  inward  glad 
response. 

"But  why  should  I  be  offended  at  the  truth?"  said  he 
at  length,  his  eyes  waltzing  all  round  hers  (that  were 
vainly  trying  to  bring  them  to  a  standstill)  in  lenient 
laughter.  "And  how  on  earth  could  I  take  you  for  some- 


68  THE  POST-GIRL 

body  different,"  he  asked,  drawing  the  subject  away  from 
the  awkward  brink  of  their  disparity,  "when  you  're  so 
unmistakably  like  yourself?  Sakes  alive!  Nobody  could 
mistake  you." 

She  lowered  eyes  and  voice  together,  and  made  with 
her  fingers  on  the  rail  as  though  she  were  decipher- 
ing her  words  from  some  half-obliterated  inscription  in 
the  wood. 

"I  want  to  tell  you,"  she  began,  and  the  dear  little 
golden  freckles  on  her  nose  seemed  to  close  in  upon  each 
other  for  strength  and  comfort,  "how  very  sorry  I  am 
.  .  .  for  what  happened  last  night." 

"You  can't  be  sorrier  than  I  am,"  the  Spawer  said. 
"It  's  been  on  my  conscience  ever  since.  I  was  a  beast  to 
jump  out  as  I  did,  and  I  admit  it." 

"I  don't  mean  you,"  the  girl  cut  in,  with  quick  correc- 
tion. 

"Who  then  ?"  asked  the  Spawer. 

"Me  .  .  ."  said  the  girl.  "You  were  as  kind  as  could 
be.  Nobody  could  have  been  kinder  .  .  .  under  the  cir- 
cumstances ...  or  helped  me  to  be  less  ashamed  of 
myself." 

"Please  not  to  make  fun  of  the  poor  blind  man,"  the 
Spawer  begged  her,  "...  for  he  can't  see  it,  and  it  's 
wicked." 

"Oh,  but  I  mean  it,"  said  the  girl.  "I  never  got  to 
sleep  all  last  night  for  thinking  of  the  music,  and  how 
badly  I  'd  acted." 

"To  be  sure,"  said  the  Spawer,  "your  acting  was  n't  al- 
together good.  If,  for  instance,  you  had  n't  mistaken 
your  cue  when  I  came  out  through  the  window,  I  should 
never  have  known  you  were  there  at  all." 


THE  POST- GIRL  69 

"Should  n't  you?"  asked  the  girl,  with  the  momentary 
blank  face  for  an  opportunity  gorgeously  lost. 

"Indeed,  I  should  n't." 

"All  the  same  .  .  .  I  'm  glad  you  did,"  she  said,  with 
sudden  reversion  of  humility. 

"Ah.  That  's  better,"  the  Spawer  assented.  "So  am 
I.  It  shows  a  proper  appreciation  of  Providence." 

"Because,"  the  girl  proceeded  to  explain,  "when  you  're 
found  out  you  feel  somehow  as  though  you  'd  paid  for 
your  wrong-doing,  don't  you  ?  And,  at  least,  it  saves  you 
from  being  a  hypocrite,  does  n't  it?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  the  Spawer,  with  infectious  piety. 
"Capital  thing  for  that.  Splendid  thing  for  that." 

"Father  Mostyn  .  .  ."  she  began.  "You  know  Father 
Mostyn,  don't  you?" 

The  name  brought  an  uncomfortable  sense  of  visitor ial 
obligations  unfulfilled  to  the  Spawer's  mind. 

"Slightly,"  he  said,  the  diminutive  seeming  to  offer  in- 
demnity for  his  neglect. 

"Yes,  I  thought  so.  He  said  you  did,"  the  girl  contin- 
ued. "You  're  going  to  call  and  see  him  sometime,  are  n't 
you?" 

"Sometime,"  the  Spawer  acquiesced.  "Yes,  certainly. 
I  Jm  hoping  to  do  so  when  I  can  get  a  moment  to  spare. 
But  I  'm  very  busy."  He  shifted  the  centre  of  conversa- 
tion from  his  own  shoulders.  "Father  Mostyn  .  .  .  you 
were  saying?" 

"Oh,  yes !  Father  Mostyn  's  always  warning  us  against 
being  Ullbrig  hypocrites.  But  it  seems  so  hard  to  avoid." 
She  sighed  in  spirit  of  hopelessness.  "I  seem  to  grow 
into  an  Ullbrig  hypocrite  in  spite  of  everything." 

"Never  mind,"  said  the  Spawer  consolatorily,  casting  a 


7o  THE  POST-GIRL 

glance  of  admiration  along  the  smooth,  sleek  cheek  and 
neck.  "It  looks  an  excellent  thing  for  the  complexion." 

"That?"  The  girl  ran  a  careless  hand  where  his  eye 
had  been  without  making  any  attempt  to  parry  the  com- 
pliment. "Oh,  that  's  being  out  in  the  rain.  Rain  's  a 
wonderful  thing  for  the  complexion.  Father  Mostyn 
says  so.  But  it  can't  wash  these  away,"  she  said,  touch- 
ing the  little  cluster  of  freckles  with  a  wistful  finger. 
'These  are  being  out  in  the  sun." 

"I  was  looking  at  those  too,"  said  the  Spawer  frankly. 
'I  rather  like  them." 

"Do  you  ?"  asked  the  girl,  plucking  up  at  his  apprecia- 
tion. "Yes,  some  people  do— but  not  those  that  have 
them.  Father  Mostyn  says  they  're  not  actually  a  dis- 
figurement, but  they  're  given  me  to  chasten  my  pride. 
He  says  whenever  I  'm  tempted  to  look  in  the  glass  I 
shall  always  see  these  and  remind  myself,  'Yes,  but  my 
nose  is  freckled,'  and  that  will  save  me  from  being  vain. 
And  it  's  funny,  but  it  's  quite  true." 

"You  know  Father  Mostyn  well,  of  course?"  said  the 
Spawer,  his  question  not  altogether  void  of  a  desire  to 
learn  how  far  this  estimable  ecclesiast  might  be  discussed 
with  safety. 

"Oh !"  The  girl  made  the  quick  round  mouth  for  ad- 
miration, and  held  up  visible  homage  in  her  eyes.  "Fa- 
ther Mostyn's  the  best  friend  I  have  in  the  world.  He  's 
taught  me  everything  I  know— it 's  my  fault,  not  his,  that 
I  know  so  little— and  done  things  for  me,  and  given  me 
things  that  all  my  gratitude  can  never,  never  repay.  It 
was  he  allowed  me  to  go  round  with  the  letters." 

"That  was  very  good  of  him,"  said  the  Spawer,  with  a 
tight  mouth. 


THE  POST- GIRL  71 

"Was  n't  it  ?"  the  girl  said,  showing  a  little  glow  of  rec- 
ognisant  enthusiasm.  "At  first  uncle  was  rather  fright- 
ened—  frightened  that  I  ought  not  to  do  it,  but  we  all 
thought  six  shillings  a  lot  of  money  to  lose  (that  's  what 
I  get)  ;  and  Father  Mostyn  said  most  certainly  I  was  to 
have  it." 

"And  so  he  gave  it,"  said  the  Spawer.  "Jolly  kind  of 
him." 

"Oh,  no !  he  did  n't  give  it,"  the  girl  corrected,  after  a 
momentary  reference  to  the  Spawer's  face.  "Govern- 
ment gives  it  ...  but  he  said  I  was  to  have  it — and  I 
have." 

"And  what  did  uncle  say?"  asked  the  Spawer  amic- 
ably. 

"Uncle  ?  Oh,  he  said  it  was  the  will  of  Providence,  and 
he  hoped  it  would  soon  be  ten ;  but  it 's  not  ten  yet,  and  I 
don't  think  it  will  be  for  a  long  time.  There  were  others 
who  wanted  the  six  shillings  too,  as  badly  as  I  did — and 
deserved  it  better,  some  of  them,  I  think.  At  one  time  I 
felt  so  ashamed  to  be  going  about  and  taking  the  money 
that  seemed  to  belong  to  such  a  number  of  people  who 
said  they  had  a  right  to  it,  that  I  asked  to  give  the  bag  up ; 
but  uncle  seemed  so  sad  about  it,  and  said  it  was  flying  in 
the  face  of  Providence  to  give  anything  up  that  you  'd 
once  got  hold  of,  and  Father  Mostyn  said  it  was  a  special 
blessing  of  Heaven  bestowed  upon  me  (though  I  'm  sure 
I  don't  know)  .  .  .  and  so  I  kept  it.  It  was  a  struggle 
at  times,  though — even  though  Father  Mostyn  used  to 
walk  with  me  all  the  way  round  by  Shippus  to  keep  up 
my  courage.  .  .  .  And  that  reminds  me,"  she  said,  show- 
ing sudden  perception  of  responsibility,  "I  have  to  go 
that  way  this  morning." 


72  THE  POST-GIRL 

"What!  have  n't  you  got  rid  of  all  your  letters  yet, 
then?" 

"All  except  two,"  she  said,  and  thrusting  open  the 
flabby  canvas  maw  with  one  hand,  peered  down  into  its 
profounds  as  though  her  look  should  satisfy  him  of 
their  presence  by  proxy.  "They  're  for  Shippus." 

"And  you  have  to  walk  round  by  Shippus  .  .  .  now  ?" 

She  nodded  her  head,  and  said  a  smiling  "Yes"  to  his 
surprise,  letting  fall  the  canvas  and  patting  the  bag's 
cheek  with  the  consolatory  dismissal  for  a  dog  just  freed 
from  dental  inspection.  Then,  more  reluctantly,  as 
though  the  saying  were  as  hard  to  come  at  as  a  marked 
apple  at  the  bottom  of  the  barrel,  she  said  .  .  .  she  must 
really  ...  be  going.  They  would  be  expecting  her. 
She  'd  been  kept  rather  long  at  Barclay's  as  it  was,  writ- 
ing something  out  for  him.  And  made  to  come  through 
the  gate. 

"And,  by  Jove  .  .  .  that  reminds  me,"  said  the 
Spawer.  "So  must  I." 

She  drew  a  covetous  conclusion  from  his  bathing  equip- 
ment, and  the  blue  sky,  showing  so  deep  and  still  beyond 
the  cliff  line,  and  was  already  half  turned  on  a  leave-tak- 
ing heel  (a  little  saddened,  perhaps,  at  his  readiness  to  as- 
sist the  separation),  when  she  found  him  by  her  side. 

"But  which  way  are  you  going  ?"  she  asked,  for  the  sea 
lay  now  at  their  backs,  and  the  Spawer,  as  was  evident 
(and  as  we  all  know),  had  been  going  a-bathing. 

"The  same  way  as  you  are,"  he  answered,  "if  you  '11 
have  me." 

And  when  Miss  Bates  (who  had  been  watching  them 
all  the  time  from  the  end  attic  window,  with  Jeff's  six- 
penny telescope  stuck  to  one  eye  and  a  hand  clapped  over 


THE  POST- GIRL  73 

the  other)  saw  this  result  of  the  girl's  abominable  schem- 
ing, she  became  very  wroth  indeed ;  filled  to  the  brim  and 
overflowing  with  righteous  indignation  that  her  sex  could 
sink  thus  low.  She  snapped  the  telescope  together  so  vi- 
ciously that  she  thought  she  had  cracked  it,  and  when  she 
found  she  had  n't  she  was  wrother  than  ever  as  compen- 
sation for  this  false  alarm,  and  almost  wished  she  had. 

"Ay,  ye  may  set  ye-sen  up  at  'im,  ye  gret,  cat-eyed, 
frowsy-'eaded  'ussy!"  she  said,  hurling  the  javelins  of 
her  anger  at  the  blue  Tam-o'-Shanter  (everyone  of  which, 
so  far  as  could  be  discernible  at  that  distance,  seemed  to 
miss),  "bud  if  ye  think  'e  '11  be  ta'en  wi'  yer  daft,  fond 
ways  ye  think  wrong  an'  all.  Ay,  you,  ah  mean.  Ah  'd 
be  sorry  to  set  mysen  i'  onny  man's  road  like  yon,  mah 
wod.  Think  shame  o'  ye-sen,  ye  graceless  mynx.  Ah 
know  very  well  'e  's  wantin'  to  be  shut  o'  ye." 

And  after  much  further  vehement  exhortation  to  this 
effect,  flung  herself  gustily  down  the  staircase,  slamming 
all  the  steps  in  descent,  like  March  doors,  and  carried  the 
full  force  of  her  indignation  into  the  kitchen,  where  she 
swept  it  from  end  to  end,  as  though  she  were  a  tidal 
wave. 

"Out  o'  my  road!"  she  cried  at  Lewis,  innocently  en- 
gaged in  fishing  the  big  dresser  with  a  toasting-fork  for 
what  it  might  yield;  and  before  he  could  stop  spinning 
sufficiently  to  get  a  sight  of  his  assailant  (though  he  had 
no  doubts  who  it  was),  was  on  him  again :  "Away  wi'  ye 
an'  all." 

And  had  him  (still  revolving)  round  the  table. 

"Let 's  be  rid  o' ye!"' 

And  licked  him  up  like  a  tongue  of  avenging  flame  by 
the  big  range. 


74  THE  POST-GIRL 

"Div  ye  want  to  throw  a  body  over?" 

And  was  ready  for  him  by  the  door. 

"Noo,  kick  me  if  ye  dare." 

And  whipped  him  out  through  the  scullery  like  a  top, 
with  a  parting : 

"Tek  that  an'  all." 

Which  he  took,  like  physic,  as  directed;  and  ten  min- 
utes later,  seeing  his  mother  emerge  from  the  calf -house, 
and  being  in  possession  of  ample  breath  for  the  purpose, 
put  Miss  Bates'  injustice  on  record  in  a  historic  howl. 


CHAPTER  VI 

sun  had  slipped  away  through  Dixon's  stackgarth 
JL  and  twilight  was  subsiding  slowly  in  soft  rose  am- 
ber, like  the  sands  of  an  hour-glass,  as  the  Spawer 
wheeled  round  Hesketh's  corner.  Against  a  tremulant 
pink  sky  the  lich-gate  stood  out  in  black  profile, 
edged  with  luminous  copper;  the  church  tower 
was  dipped  in  dull  red  gold  as  far  as  the  luffer  of  the 
belfry;  and  the  six  Vicarage  windows  gleamed  blood- 
shot from  behind  their  iron  bars  when  he  came  upon 
them  for  the  first  time.  A  group  of  happy  children, 
playing  at  calling  names  and  slapping  each  other  down 
the  roadway,  stopped  their  pastime  on  a  sudden  and  ran 
up  to  take  awed  stock  of  this  presumptuous  stranger, 
who  dismounted  before  his  reverence  the  Vicar's  as 
though  he  actually  meant  to  open  the  gate. 

At  the  first  contact  of  bicycle  with  the  railings,  the 
gathered  gloom  about  the  Vicarage  door  seemed  suddenly 
to  be  sucked  inwards,  and  the  eddying  dusk  reshaped  it- 
self over  the  priestly  dimensions  of  Father  Mostyn. 

"Ha!"  The  word  rang  out  in  greeting  like  a  genial 
note  of  prelude  blown  on  Gabriel's  trumpet.  "There  you 
are.  Capital!  capital!  I  made  sure  we  should  find  you 
not  so  far  away."  He  waltzed  down  the  narrow  path  to 
open  the  gate,  balancing  both  hands  as  though  they  held 
an  invisible  baby  for  baptism,  and  its  name  was  "Wel- 
come." One  of  these— a  plump,  soft,  balmy,  persuasive, 

75 


76  THE  POST-GIRL 

clerical  right  hand,— he  gave  to  the  Spawer  by  the  gate ; 
threw  it,  rather,  as  Noah  might  have  thrown  his  dove 
across  the  face  of  the  waters,  with  such  a  beautiful  ges- 
ture of  benediction  that  in  settling  down  upon  the  Spaw- 
er's  fingers  it  seemed  to  confer  the  silent  virtue  of  a  bless- 
ing. 

"The  bicycle  too,"  he  said,  wagging  humorous  temporal 
greeting  towards  it  with  his  left.  "Capital!  capital!  I 
thought  we  should  n't  be  walking  to-night.  There  's  no 
evening  post,  you  see,  in  Ullbrig."  He  flung  the  gate 
backward  on  its  hinges  as  far  as  it  would  go.  "Come  in ; 
come  in.  Bring  your  bicycle  along  with  you.  Not  that 
anybody  would  dare  to  violate  its  sanctuary  by  the  Vicar- 
age palings,  but  the  saddle  would  absorb  the  dew  and — 
let  me  help  you." 

All  the  time,  from  the  gate  to  the  doorway,  his  hands 
were  hovering  busily  about  the  bicycle  without  once 
touching  it;  yet  with  such  a  consummate  suggestion  of 
assistance  that  the  Spawer  with  very  little  prompting 
could  have  sworn  before  Justices  that  his  Reverence  had 
carried  the  machine  into  the  hall  unaided. 

It  was  a  big,  bare  hall— square,  flagged  in  stone,  and 
ringing  to  their  footsteps  with  the  sonority  of  a  crypt. 
From  the  ceiling  depended  a  swing-lamp  of  brass  at  the 
end  of  a  triple  chain.  On  the  left-hand  side  stood  a  hard 
ecclesiastical  bench  of  black  oak,  primarily  provided,  no 
doubt,  for  the  accommodation  of  those  visitors  to  whom 
the  privilege  of  a  front  room  audience  would  be  denied. 
On  the  right  side  filed  a  long  line  of  austere  wooden  pegs 
in  monastic  procession.  A  canonical  beaver  obliterated 
the  first  of  them ;  two  more  held  up  the  dread  square  mor- 
tar-board against  the  wall  between  them,  diamond- wise. 


THE  POST- GIRL  77 

each  supporting  a  corner.  For  the  rest,  some  sticks  and 
umbrellas — with  the  ebony  divining  rod  of  far-reaching 
reputation  conspicuous  among  them — completed  the  mov- 
ables of  the  hall.  The  bicycle  followed  the  mesmeric  in- 
dication of  Father  Mostyn's  hands  into  place  along  the 
wall  under  the  hat  rack,  and  the  priest  saw  that  it  was 
good. 

By  a  magnificent  act  of  courtesy  he  relieved  the  Spawer 
of  his  cap,  and  swept  his  own  black  mortar-board  down 
the  rack  to  make  place  of  honor  for  it — though  there 
were  half  a  dozen  unoccupied  places  to  either  side.  Then, 
taking  up  a  matchbox  from  the  oak  bench,  which  he 
shook  cautiously  against  his  ear  for  assurance  of  its  store, 
he  invited  the  Spawer  to  follow  him,  and  threw  open 
the  inner  door. 

"The  Vicar,  you  see,"  he  explained,  as  his  shoulders 
dipped  into  the  dusk  over  the  threshold,  "is  his  own  ser- 
vant in  addition  to  being  everybody  else's.  He  acts  as  a 
chastening  object-lesson  to  our  Ullbrig  pride.  We  don't 
go  out  to  service  in  Ullbrig.  We  scrub  floors,  we  scour 
front-door  steps,  we  wash  clothes,  we  clean  sinks,  we 
empty  slops,  we  peel  potatoes — but,  thank  God,  we  are 
not  servants.  Only  his  reverence  is  a  servant.  When 
anything  goes  wrong  with  our  nonconformist  inwards — 
run,  Mary,  and  pull  his  reverence's  bell.  That  's  what 
his  reverence  is  for.  Don't  trouble  the  doctor  first  of  all. 
Let  's  see  what  his  reverence  says.  The  doctor  will  go 
back  and  enter  the  visit  in  a  book,  and  charge  you  for  it. 
If  anything  goes  worse — run,  Mary,  again.  Never  mind 
your  apron — he  won't  notice.  Pull  the  bell  harder  this 
time,  and  let 's  have  a  prayer  out  of  his  reverence  to  make 
sure — with  a  little  Latin  in  it.  The  pain  's  spreading. 


78  THE  POST-GIRL 

For  we  're  all  of  us  reverences  in  chapel,  each  more  rev- 
erend than  his  neighbor;  but  in  sick-beds  we  're  very 
humble  sinners  indeed,  who  only  want  to  get  better  so 
that  we  may  be  ready  and  willing  to  go  when  the  Lord 
sees  fit  to  take  us.  Or  if  it  's  a  little  legal  advice  you  're 
in  need  of— why  pay  six  and  eightpence  to  an  articled 
solicitor?  Go  and  knock  up  his  reverence.  He  's  the 
man  for  you— and  send  him  a  turnip  for  his  next  harvest 
festival." 

Genially  discoursing  on  the  Ullbrig  habit  as  they  pro- 
ceeded, with  an  occasionally  guiding  line  thrown  over  his 
shoulder  in  bolder  type  for  the  Spawer's  assistance :  ".  .  . 
A  little  crockery  to  your  left  here.  Ha!  .  .  .  mind  the 
table-corner.  You  see  the  chair  ?"  he  led  the  way  into  the 
right-hand  room — a  room  larger  than  you  would  have 
dared  to  imagine  from  the  roadway— lighted  dimly  by 
one  tall,  smouldering  amber  window  of  many  panes; 
heavy  with  the  smell  of  tobacco,  and  heaped  up  in  shape- 
less shadow-masses  of  disorder.  Two  great  bales  of  car- 
pet stood  together  in  one  corner  like  the  stern  roots  of 
trees  that  had  been  cut  down.  On  the  grained  side-cup- 
board to  the  left  hand  of  the  fireplace  were  glasses — regi- 
ments of  glasses — of  all  sorts  and  shapes  and  sizes  and 
qualities.  A  cumbersome  early-century  round  table,  ris- 
ing like  a  giant  toad-stool  from  a  massive  octagonal  stalk, 
apparently  constituted  the  larder,  to  the  very  verge  of 
whose  circumference  were  cocoa-tins,  marmalade  jars, 
tea-cups,  tea-pots,  saucers ;  sugar-bags  red  and  blue ;  some 
cross-marked  eggs  in  a  pie-dish;  a  brown  bread  loaf, 
about  three  parts  through,  and  some  cold  ham. 

And  yet,  despite  the  room's  disorder,  entering  in  the 
wake  of  those  benignant  shoulders;  treading  in  the  con- 


THE  POST-GIRL  79 

stricted  pathways  delineated  by  those  sacerdotal  shoes 
(virtually  and  spiritually  sandals)  ;  wrapped  about  with 
the  atmosphere  of  genial  indulgence  thrown  forth  this 
side  and  that  from  those  priestly  fingers,  as  though  they 
swung  an  invisible  censer — one  lacked  all  power  to  ques- 
tion. A  swing  to  the  left,  the  fault  of  the  chair  was  for- 
given; a  swing  to  the  right,  what  fear  of  treading  on 
crockery;  a  swing  to  the  front,  were  he  swinging  a  Ian- 
thorn  now  the  way  could  hardly  be  better  lighted. 

Such  was  the  power  of  Father  Mostyn. 

So,  swinging  and  censing,  and  asperging  and  exhorting, 
and  absolving  and  exorcising  till  all  the  ninety-nine  devils 
of  disorder  were  cast  out,  the  priest  passed  through  to  the 
window. 

"Ha !"  said  he,  with  the  keen  voice  for  a  conviction  real- 
ised, when  he  came  there.  "I  knew  we  should  catch  sight 
of  Mrs.  Gatheredge  somewhere  about.  By  Fussitter's 
steps  for  choice.  She  suffers  dreadfully,  poor  woman, 
from  a  chronic  enlargement" — he  paused  to  slip  his 
fingers  into  the  rings  of  the  shutters — "of  the  curiosity. 
I  believe  the  disease  is  incurable.  It  will  kill  her  in  the 
end,  I  'm  afraid,  as  it  did  Lot's  wife.  Nothing  can  be 
done  for  her,  except  to  protect  her  as  much  as  possible 
from  harmful  excitement.  If  you  don't  mind  the  dark 
for  a  moment"— the  first  shutter  creaked  upward — "we  '11 
fasten  ourselves  in  before  making  use  of  the  matches. 
The  strain  of  looking  into  his  reverence's  room  when  he 
lights  the  lamp  and  has  a  guest  inside  might  prove  too 
much  for  her — bring  about  a  fatal  congestion  of  the  glans 
curiosus.  His  reverence,  you  see,  has  got  to  think  for 
others  as  well  as  himself.  Ha !  that  's  better."  The  sec- 
ond shutter  closed  upon  the  first  like  the  great  jaw  of  a 


So  THE  POST-GIRL 

megalosaurus,  swallowing  up  the  dwindling  remains  of 
daylight  at  a  gulp.  "Now  we  can  light  up  in  all  good 
Christian  faith  and  charity." 

He  struck  a  match,  and  so  far  as  the  Spawer  could  ob- 
serve— since  the  Vicar's  back  was  turned — appeared  to 
be  setting  fire  to  the  stack  of  papers  on  his  writing-table. 
After  a  moment,  however,  when  the  flame  had  steadied, 
he  drew  it  forth  transferred  to  the  wick  of  a  composite 
candle,  which  he  held  genially  horizontal  while  he  beck- 
oned the  Spawer  forward  by  virtue  of  the  signet  finger. 

"That  's  it,"  he  said,  wagging  appreciative  grease- 
drops  from  the  candle.  "Come  along !  come  along !  Let 's 
see  if  we  can't  manage  to  find  some  sort  of  a  seat  for 
you.  We  ought  to  do — I  was  sitting  down  in  one  myself 
not  so  long  ago."  Still  wagging  the  candle  and  perform- 
ing an  amiable  bear-dance  on  both  feet  in  a  revolving 
twelve-inch  circle  as  he  considered  the  question  on  all 
sides  of  him,  presently  he  made  a  pounce  into  the  central 
obscurity  and  dragged  out  a  big  leather-backed  chair  by 
the  arm,  like  a  reluctant  school-boy.  "Here  we  are,"  says 
he,  rejoicing  in  the  capture.  "The  very  thing  I  had  in 
my  mind.  Try  that.  You  '11  want  to  beg  it  of  me  when 
you  Ve  known  its  beauties  a  time  or  two.  That  's  the 
chair  of  chairs,  cathedra  cathedrarum.  There  's  comfort 
for  you !" 

Negligently  wiping  the  leather- work  with  a  corner  of 
his  cassock,  he  declared  the  chair  open  for  the  Spawer's 
accommodation. 

From  the  fender,  bristling  with  the  handles  of  sauce- 
pans, all  thrust  outward  like  the  quills  of  a  porcupine,  he 
commanded  a  block  tin  kettle— and  a  small  spirit-lamp. 
Other  journeyings  to  and  fro  provided  him  with  water 


THE  POST- GIRL  81 

in  a  glorious  old  John  Bull  mug,  with  a  lemon,  with  a 
basin  of  lump  sugar,  with  two  spoons,  with  whiskey,  with 
a  nutmeg  and  grater,  with  cigars,  contained  in  a  massive 
case  of  embossed  silver,  with  cigarettes,  of  which  the 
Spawer  was  constrained  to  acceptance,  having  previously 
disappointed  Father  Mostyn  by  a  refusal  of  his  choice 
Havanas;  with  tobacco  in  a  fat,  eighteenth-century  jar, 
lavishly  pictured  and  proverbed ;  and  with  a  colored,  clay 
churchwarden  as  long  as  a  fiddlestick,  that  looked  as  if 
it  would  snap  brittly  in  two  of  its  own  weight  at  the  first 
attempt  to  lift  it.  Lastly,  all  these  things  being  accum- 
ulated one  by  one,  and  laid  out  temptingly  on  the  little 
round  table,  with  the  blue  flame  established  at  the  bottom 
of  the  kettle,  and  tapering  downwards  to  its  junction  with 
the  wick  like  a  sea-anemone,  Father  Mostyn  permitted 
himself  to  sink  back  hugely  upon  the  chair,  lifting  both 
feet  from  the  ground  as  he  did  so,  in  supreme  testimony 
to  the  full  ripe  fruits  of  ease. 

"Well,"  said  he,  setting  his  fingers  to  work  in  the 
depths  of  the  tobacco  jar,  "and  what  about  the  music?" 
His  tongue  appeared  reflectively  in  his  cheek  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  his  keen  eye  fixed  the  far  wall  on  a  nice  point 
of  remembrance.  "Let  's  see.  ...  A  symphonium?" 
The  Spawer  adjusted  the  balance  gently :  "A  concerto." 
"Ha!  a  concerto."  Enlightenment  swept  over  the 
Vicar's  face  like  a  tide  of  sunlight,  and  his  shoulders 
shook  as  with  the  laughter  of  gladsome  things.  "Beauti- 
ful !  beautiful !  To  think  of  our  stubborn  Ullbrig  soil's 
being  made  to  yield  a  concerto.  Had  it  been  a  turnip 
now.  But  a  concerto !  Ullbrig  knows  nothing  of  con- 
certos. It  would  know  still  less  if  you  were  to  explain. 
Explanations  only  confuse  us — besides  being  an  unwar- 


82  THE  POST-GIRL 

rantable  violation  of  our  precious  rights  of  ignorance. 
Tell  friend  Jevons  you  're  at  work  upon  a  concerto,  and 
see  what  he  says.  He  '11  tell  you,  yes,  his  son  's  got  one." 
Father  Mostyn  cast  the  forefinger  of  conviction  at  him. 
"Depend  upon  it,  that  's  what  he  '11  tell  you.  His  son  's 
got  one.  A  beauty  with  bells  that  he  gave  eighteenpence 
for.  Meaning  one  of  those  nickel-silver  mouth-organs 
such  as  we  can't  go  to  Hunmouth  Fair  without  bringing 
back  with  us— unless  we  plunge  for  a  concertina.  It  's 
got  to  be  one  or  the  other,  or  people  might  n't  think  we  'd 
been  to  Hunmouth  Fair  at  all,  and  that  's  a  light  too 
glorious  to  be  hid  under  a  bushel.  But  it  's  all  one  in 
name  to  us  whatever  we  get.  We  call  it  a  'music.' 
Whether  it  's  a  piano,  or  a  fiddle,  or  a  song,  or  a  sym- 
phonium,  or  a  sonata,  or  a  Jew's  harp,  or  a  concertina,  or 
a  sackbut— the  definition  does  n't  alter.  We  call  it  a 
'music.'  'So-and-So  's  gotten  a  grand  music.'  'It  's  a 
grand  music,  yon.'  That  's  our  way." 

The  little  black  cat  of  a  kettle,  after  purring  compla- 
cently for  a  while  over  the  blue  flame,  suddenly  arched 
its  lidded  back  and  spat  out  across  the  table. 

"Ha !"  Father  Mostyn  turned  gladsomely  at  the  sound. 
"There  's  music  for  you.  Come ;  you  're  a  whiskey  man  ? 
Say  when  and  fear  not." 

"If  you  don't  mind,  I  '11  say  it  now,"  said  the  Spawer, 
with  laughing  apology. 

"No?"  His  Reverence  held  out  the  uncorked  bottle  by 
the  neck,  persuasively  tilted.  "Think  twice,  my  son,  be- 
fore committing  yourself  to  hasty  judgments."  Then 
seeing  the  Spawer  was  not  to  be  moved:  "A  glass  of 
sherry,  then?  Benedictine?  Capital!  You  won't  beat 
Benedictine  for  a  standard  liqueur.  Apart  from  its  pleas- 


THE  POST-GIRL  83 

ant  effect  upon  the  palate,  it  has  a  valuable  corroborant 
action  on  the  gastric  juices,  and  tends  to  the  promotion 
of  chyme." 

All  in  speaking  he  produced  the  familiar  flagon  from 
the  sideboard,  poured  out  a  cut-glass  thumbful  of  amber. 
This  act  of  hospitality  fulfilled,  he  turned,  with  no  dimin- 
ished zeal,  to  the  serving  of  his  own  requirements. 
He  sipped  warily  from  an  edge  of  his  smoking  glass 
to  verify  his  expectations  of  the  flavor,  nipped  his  lips 
for  a  moment  in  judicial  degree,  and  subsided  slowly 
upon  the  chair  in  a  long  breath  of  rapture,  extending  the 
tumbler  towards  the  Spawer  for  wassail — "here  's  suc- 
cess to  our  concerto,  and  may  your  days  be  long  in  the 
land  with  us.  We  're  a  stiff-necked  and  obstinate  genera- 
tion, who  worship  gods  of  our  own  making,  and  have 
more  than  a  shrewd  idea  that  the  devil  's  in  music  (we 
know  for  certain  he  's  in  the  Church)  ;  but  we  bake  good 
pies  for  all  that,  and  our  nonconformist  poultry  can't  be 
beaten." 

The  Spawer  laughed.    "And  our  postman  ?"  he  asked. 


CHAPTER  VII 

' TT  A !"  Father  Mostyn  played  upon  the  note  moment- 
Xi.  ously,  as  though  he  were  throwing  open  the  grand 
double  gates  of  discussion.  "Pamela,  you  mean!  I  knew 
we  should  come  to  that  before  long.  No  help  for  it."  He 
subpoenaed  the  Spawer  for  witness  to  the  wisdom  of  his 
conclusions  with  a  wagged  forefinger.  "But  Pamela  's 
not  Ullbrig.  Pamela  was  n't  fashioned  out  of  our  Ullbrig 
clay.  She  's  not  like  the  rest  of  us ;  comes  of  a  different 
class  altogether.  You  can't  mistake  it.  Take  note  of 
her  when  she  laughs — you  're  a  musical  man  and  you  '11 
soon  see— she  covers  the  whole  diapason.  Ullbrig 
does  n't  laugh  like  that.  Ullbrig  laughs  on  one  note  as 
though  it  were  a  plough  furrow.  There  's  nothing  of 
cadence  about  our  Ullbrig  laughter— that  's  a  thing  only 
comes  with  breed.  Notice  her  eyebrows,  too,  when  she  's 
speaking,  and  see  how  beautifully  flexible  they  are."  The 
Vicar1  warmed  to  the  subject  with  the  enthusiasm  of 
a  connoisseur. 

"No— there  's  nothing  of  our  clay  in  Pamela's  con- 
struction. Pam  is  like  charity ;  suffereth  long  and  is  kind. 
Envieth  not ;  vaunteth  not  herself ;  is  not  puffed  up.  Doth 
not  behave  herself  unseemly ;  seeketh  not  her  own ;  is  not 
easily  provoked;  thinketh  no  evil.  Ullbrig  does  n't  un- 
derstand Pam  any  more  than  it  understands  the  transit 
of  Venus  or  the  rings  of  Saturn.  Pam  's  above  our  heads 
and  comprehension.  Because  she  goes  to  church  on  Sun- 

84 


THE  POST-GIRL  85 

day,  and  does  n't  walk  with  our  Ullbrig  young  men  down 
Lovers'  Lane  at  nightfall,  we  say  she  's  proud.  Because 
she  's  too  generous  to  refuse  them  a  word  in  broad  day- 
light, when  they  ask  for  it,  we  say  she  's  forward.  Be- 
cause she  never  says  unkind  things  of  us  all  in  turn 
behind  our  backs,  and  won't  listen  to  any,  we  say  she  's 
disagreeable.  Because  she  does  n't  read  the  post-cards 
on  her  way  round,  and  tell  us  whether  Miss  So-and-So 
ever  hears  from  that  Hunmouth  young  gentleman  or  not, 
we  say  she  keeps  a  still  tongue  in  her  head — which  is  our 
Ullbrig  idiom  for  a  guilty  conscience.  That  we  had  only 
a  few  more  Pams — with  due  gratitude  to  Blessed  Mary 
for  the  one  we  've  got." 

"As  a  postman,"  said  the  Spawer,  entering  into  the 
Vicar's  appreciation,  "she  's  the  most  astonishing  value  I 
ever  saw.  The  girl  seems  to  have  a  soul.  Who  is  she? 
And  where  does  she  come  from?" 

Father  Mostyn's  brows  converged  upon  the  pipe-bowl 
in  the  hollow  of  his  knee,  and  his  cassock  swelled  to  a 
long  breath  of  mystery.  "Who  is  she?  and  where  does 
she  come  from  ?  .  .  .  Those  are  the  questions.  A  priori, 
I  'm  afraid  there  's  nothing  to  answer  them.  So  far,  it 
seems  to  have  been  Heaven's  wise  purpose  to  reveal  her 
as  a  beautiful  mystery;  an  incarnate  testimony  to  the 
teaching  of  Holy  Church— if  only  Ullbrig  knew  the 
meaning  of  the  word  testimony.  She  came  to  Ullbrig,  in 
the  first  place,  with  her  mother,  as  quite  a  little  girl,  and 
lodged  with  friend  Morland  at  the  Post  Office.  I  believe 
there  was  some  intention  on  her  mother's  part  of  found- 
ing a  small  preparatory  school  in  combination  with  poul- 
try farming  at  the  time.  Yes,  poor  woman,  I  rather  fear 
that  was  her  intention.  She  seemed  to  think  it  would 


86  THE  POST-GIRL 

yield  them  both  a  livelihood,  and  give  Pamela  the  benefit 
of  new-laid  eggs;  but  she  died  suddenly,  the  very  day 
after  Tankard  had  agreed  to  let  her  the  cottage  down 
Whivvle  Lane  at  four  and  sixpence  a  week— being  three 
shillings  the  rent  of  the  cottage,  and  eighteenpence  be- 
cause she  was  a  lady.  Ha !  that  's  the  way  with  us.  To 
try  and  do  you  one ;  do  your  father  one ;  do  your  mother 
one ;  do  your  sister  one ;  do  your  brother  one ;  but  par- 
ticularly do  one  to  them  that  speak  softly  with  you,  and 
his  reverence  the  Vicar.  Him  do  half  a  dozen  if  you  can, 
being  an  ecclesiast,  and  so  difficult  to  do."  He  wiped  the 
smile  off  his  mouth  with  one  ruminative  stroke  of  his 
sleek  fingers — you  might  almost  suppose  he  had  palmed 
it,  and  slipped  it  up  his  sleeve,  so  quickly  did  it  come 
away.  "She  died  suddenly,  poor  woman,  before  I  could 
get  to  her.  Cardiac  haemorrhage,  commonly,  and  not  al- 
ways incorrectly,  called  a  broken  heart.  No  doubt  about 
it.  They  sent  for  me  three  times,  but  it  happened  most 
grievously  that  I  had  tricycled  off  to  Whivvle  that  day  to 
inquire  into  a  little  matter  concerning  the  nefarious  sale 
of  glebe  straw—  ( I  'm  afraid  I  shall  have  to  be  going  there 
again  before  so  long;  the  practice  shows  signs  of  revival) 
—and  she  was  dead  when  I  got  back.  We  buried  her 
round  by  the  east  window,  where  the  grass  turns  over 
the  slope  towards  the  north  wall.  You  can  just  see  the 
top  of  the  stone  from  the  roadway."  He  indicated  its 
approximate  position  with  a  benedictory  cast  of  the  signet 
hand.  "After  paying  all  funeral  expenses,  it  was  found 
that  there  remained  a  small  balance  of  some  thirty  pounds 
odd— evidently  the  tail-end  of  their  resources— in  virtue 
whereof,  friend  Morland's  heart  was  moved  to  take  Pam 
to  his  bosom,  and  give  her  a  granddaughter's  place  in  the 


THE  POST- GIRL  87 

family  circle.  Thirty  pounds,  you  see,  goes  a  long  way 
in  Ullbrig,  where  we  grow  almost  everything  for  our- 
selves except  beer  and  tobacco.  One  mouth  more  or  less 
to  feed  makes  hardly  any  appreciable  difference." 

"But  were  there  no  relatives  ?"  the  Spawer  suggested. 

Father  Mostyn  shook  his  head  significantly. 

"And  you  were  n't  able  to  trace  the  mother's  move- 
ments before  she  came  to  Ullbrig?" 

"No  further  than  Hunmouth."  His  Reverence  tried 
the  edge  of  the  Spawer's  interest  with  a  keen  eye  through 
drawn  lashes,  as  though  it  were  a  razor  he  was  stropping. 
"Following  up  a  theory  of  mine,  we  traced  her  as  far  as 
Hunmouth.  But  for  that,  if  we  'd  taken  friend  Morland's 
advice,  we  should  have  lost  her  altogether.  As  I  pre- 
dicted, we  found  she  'd  been  living  for  some  time  in  small 
lodgings  there.  .  .  .  There  was  some  question  of  music 
teaching,  I  believe." 

"Music  teaching?"  The  Spawer  leaned  on  the  inter- 
rogative with  all  the  weight  of  commiserative  despair. 

"I  rather  gathered  so.  She  gave  lessons  to  the  land- 
lady's daughter,  I  fancy,  in  return  for  the  user"  of  the 
piano,  and  she  had  a  blind  boy  studying  with  her  for  a 
while.  His  family  thought  of  making  him  a  church  or- 
ganist, but  unfortunately  for  all  parties  concerned,  the 
boy's  father  failed.  Yes,  failed  rather  suddenly,  poor 
man,  and  cast  quite  a  gloom  over  the  musical  outlook. 
Then  Pamela  seems  to  have  acquired  diphtheria  from  a 
sewer  opening  directly  under  the  bedroom  window,  and 
had  a  narrow  squeak  for  it;  and  after  that  her  terrified 
mother  fled  the  town  with  her,  and  brought  her  into  the 
country.  There  's  no  danger  of  sewers  in  the  country, 
you  see.  We  have  n't  such  things ;  we  know  better." 


88  THE  POST-GIRL 

"And  that 's  what  brought  them  to  Ullbrig?"  asked  the 
Spawer. 

"That  's  what  brought  them  to  Ullbrig.  What  brought 
them  to  Hunmouth  is  still  a  matter  for  conjecture.  I 
called  upon  the  doctor  subsequently  who  attended  Pam 
there,  but  he  could  give  me  no  information  about  them, 
beyond  the  fact  that  his  bill  had  been  paid  before  they 

•eft." 

"I  should  have  thought,  though,"  said  the  Spawer,  tip- 
ping his  lips  with  golden  Benedictine,  and  sending  the 
bouquet  reflectively  through  his  nostrils,  "that  she  would 
have  left  letters— or  something  of  the  sort— behind  her, 
which  might  have  been  followed  up." 

"One  would  have  thought  so,  naturally.  But  no;  not 
a  single  piece  of  manuscript  among  all  her  possessions." 

"That,"  said  the  Spawer,  "looks  awfully  much  as 
though  they  'd  been  purposely  destroyed." 

Father  Mostyn's  lips  tightened  significantly,  and  he 
nodded  his  head  with  sagacious  indulgence  for  the  toler- 
able work  of  a  novice. 

"Moreover,  in  such  books  as  belonged  to  her  the  fly- 
leaf was  invariably  missing.  Torn  bodily  out.  Not  a 
doubt  about  it." 

"To  remove  traces  of  her  identity  ?" 

The  Vicar  slipped  his  forefinger  into  the  pipe-bowl  and 
gave  the  tobacco  a  quick,  conclusive  squeeze.  "Unques- 
tionably." 

"But  for  what  reason,  do  you  think?" 

His  Reverence  sat  back  luxuriously  in  the  arm-chair, 
with  fingers  outspread  tip  to  tip  over  the  convex  outline 
of  his  cassock,  and  legs  crossed  reposefully  for  the  better 
enjoyment  of  his  own  discourse.  "In  the  first  place,  she 


THE  POST-GIRL  89 

was  a  lady.  Not  a  doubt  about  it.  No  mere  professional 
man's  daughter,  brought  up  amid  the  varying  circum- 
stances incidental  to  professional  society,  and  trained  to 
consider  her  father's  interests  in  all  her  actions — (the 
little  professional  discipline  of  conduct  always  shows)  — 
but  a  woman  of  birth  and  position.  Belonging  to  a  good 
old  military  family,  I  should  say,  judging  by  her  bearing, 
with  a  fine,  sleek  living  or  two  in  its  gift  for  the  benefit 
of  the  younger  branch.  Depend  upon  it.  She  would 
come  of  the  elder  branch,  though,  and  I  should  take  her 
to  be  an  only  daughter.  There  would  be  no  sons.  Un- 
fortunately, a  painful  indisposition  of  a  lumbaginous 
nature  prevented  my  extending  her  more  than  the  ordi- 
nary parochial  courtesy  at  the  first,  and  she  died  within 
a  fortnight  of  her  arrival.  Otherwise,  doubtless  she 
would  have  sought  to  tell  me  her  circumstances  in  giving 
the  customary  intimation  of  a  desire  to  benefit  by  the 
blessed  Sacraments  of  the  Church — but  there  's  no  mis- 
taking the  evidence."  He  recapitulated  it  over  his  fingers. 
"She  was  the  daughter  of  a  wealthy  military  man,  a 
widower,  who  had  possibly  distinguished  himself  in  the 
Indian  service  (most  likely  a  major-general  and  K.C.B.), 
living  on  a  beautiful  estate  somewhere  down  south — say 
Surrey  or  the  Hampshire  Downs." 

"Could  n't  you  have  advertised  in  some  of  the  southern 
papers?"  suggested  the  Spawer. 

"Precisely.  We  advertised  for  some  time,  and  to  some 
considerable  extent,  in  such  of  them  as  would  be  likely  to 
come  under  the  General's  notice — but  without  success. 
Indeed,  none  was  to  be  expected.  Men  of  the  General's 
station  in  life  don't  trouble  to  read  advertisements,  much 
less  answer  them — and  if,  in  this  case,  he  's  read  it,  it 


90  THE  POST-GIRL 

would  n't  have  changed  his  attitude  towards  a  discarded 
daughter  or  induced  a  reply.  Therefore,  to  continue 
advertising  would  have  been  merely  to  throw  good  money 
after  bad.  ...  Ha!  Consequently  the  next  step  in  our 
investigations  is  to  decide  what  could  be  responsible  for 
her  detachment  from  these  attractive  surroundings,  and 
her  subsequent  lapse  into  penurious  neglect.  It  could  n't 
have  been  the  failure  of  her  father's  fortune.  A  catas- 
trophe of  this  sort  would  n't  have  cut  her  off  completely 
from  the  family  and  a  few,  at  least,  of  her  necessarily 
large  circle  of  friends.  Some  of  her  clerical  half-cousins, 
too,  would  have  come  forward  to  her  assistance,  depend 
upon  it.  But  even  supposing  the  probabilities  to  be  other- 
wise, then  there  would  be  still  less  reason  for  her  volun- 
tary self -excision.  Though  under  these  circumstances, 
one  might  understand  her  never  referring  to  her  family 
connection,  it  's  inconceivable  to  suppose  that  she  should 
have  gone  to  any  particular  trouble  to  conceal  traces  of 
the  fact.  To  have  done  so  would  have  been  a  work  of 
supererogation,  besides  running  counter  to  all  our  priestly 
experience  of  the  human  heart  and  its  workings.  No. 
In  the  resolute  attempt  to  cut  herself  off  from  her  family 
the  priestly  eye  perceives  the  acting  hand  of  pride. 
Not  a  doubt  about  it.  Pride  did  her.  The  pride  of 
love.  No  mistaking  it.  The  headstrong  pride  of  love. 
Faith  removes  mountains,  but  love  climbs  over  'em,  at 
all  costs.  Depend  upon  it,  she  'd  given  her  heart  to 
some  man  against  the  General's  will,  and  run  away  and 
married  him.  Marriage  was  the  first  step  in  her  de- 
scent." 

"Or  do  you  think  .  .  ."  hazarded  the  Spawer,  with  all 
humility  for  intruding  his  little  key  into  so  magnificent 


THE  POST-GIRL  91 

a  lock  of  hypothesis,  "that  marriage  was  a  missing  step 
altogether,  and  she  tripped  for  want  of  it  ?" 

Father  Mostyn  received  the  suggestion  with  magnani- 
mous courtesy — almost  as  though  it  had  been  a  duly  ex- 
pected guest.  "I  think  not.  Under  certain  conditions  of 
life  that  would  be  an  admirable  hypothesis  for  working 
purposes.  But  it  won't  fit  the  present  case.  In  the  first 
instance,  we  must  remember  that  those  little  idiosyn- 
crasies of  morality  occur  less  frequently  in  the  class  of 
society  with  which  we  're  dealing,  and  that  when  they 
actually  occur,  the  most  elaborate  precautions  are  taken 
against  any  leakage  of  the  fact.  Moreover,  let  's  look  at 
the  actual  evidence.  All  the  woman's  linen — the  hand- 
kerchiefs, the  underclothing,  the  petticoats,  the  chemises, 
and  so  forth — were  embroidered  with  the  monogram 
'M.  P.  S.,'  standing,  not  a  doubt  about  it,  for  Mary 
Pamela  Searle.  Some  of  the  child's  things,  bearing  the 
identical  monogram,  showed  that  they  'd  been  cut  down 
for  her;  while  one  or  two  more  recent  articles — of  a 
much  cheaper  material — were  initialled  simply  'P.  S.'  in 
black  marking-ink.  It  's  necessary  to  remember  this. 
Now,  if  we  turn  from  the  linen  to  the  books  I  spoke 
about  and  contrast  their  different  methods  of  treatment, 
we  shall  find  strong  testimony  to  the  support  of  my  con- 
tention. On  the  one  hand,  linen,  underclothing,  chemises, 
petticoats,  pocket-handkerchiefs,  and  so  forth,  marked 
plainly  'M.  P.  S.'  and  T.  S.'  On  the  other  hand,  a  Bible, 
a  book  of  Common  Prayer  in  padded  morocco,  evidently 
the  property  of  a  lady;  a  Shakespeare;  a  volume  of 
Torquato  Tasso's  'Gerusalemme  Liberate,'  in  levant;  an 
old-fashioned  copy  of  'Mother  Goose';  and  one  or  two 
other  volumes,  all  with  the  fly-leaf  torn  out  No  mistak- 


92  THE  POST-GIRL 

ing  the  evidence.  Searle  was  her  rightful  married  name, 
and  there  was  no  need  to  suppress  it.  For  all  intents  and 
purposes,  it  suited  her  as  well  as  another.  Besides,  pride 
would  n't  allow  her  to  cast  aside  the  name  of  her  own 
choosing.  Pride  had  got  too  fast  hold  of  her  by  the 
elbow,  you  see,  for  that.  Keep  a  sharp  look-out  for  the 
hand  of  pride  in  the  case  as  we  go  along,  and  you  won't 
be  likely  to  lose  your  way.  It  will  be  a  sign-post  to  you. 
Searle  was  the  name  she  'd  given  everything  up  for — her 
father,  her  home,  her  friends,  her  family,  her  position— 
and  it  had  been  bought  too  dear  to  throw  aside.  It  was 
the  other  name  pride  wanted  her  to  get  rid  of.  That  's 
why  the  fly-leaves  came  out.  Depend  upon  it.  They  were 
gift-books  belonging  to  her  unmarried  days.  The  Shake- 
speare was  a  present  from  her  father;  Torquato  Tasso 
came  most  likely  from  an  Italian  governess;  some  girl- 
friend gave  her  the  Prayer-book— perhaps  as  a  souvenir 
of  their  first  Communion.  The  Bible  would  hardly  be  in 
the  nature  of  a  gift-book.  People  of  social  distinction, 
brought  up  in  conformity  with  the  best  teachings  of  Holy 
Church,  and  abhorring  all  forms  of  unorthodoxy  as  they 
would  uncleanliness,  don't  make  presents  to  themselves  of 
Bibles.  That  's  a  plebeian  practice,  savoring  objec- 
tionably of  free-thinking  and  dissent.  The  Bible  is  not 
mentioned  or  made  use  of  by  well-bred  people  in  that 
odious  popular  manner.  No,  the  book  would  figure  in 
her  school-room  equipment  as  part  of  a  necessary  instruc- 
tion, but  no  more. 

"...  Ha!"  His  hand,  on  its  way  to  the  round  table, 
arrested  itself  suddenly  in  mid-air  as  though  to  impose  a 
listening  silence.  "...  There  goes  friend  Davidson— 
keeping  his  promise.  I  thought  it  was  about  his  time. 


THE  POST- GIRL  93 

He  gave  me  his  sacred  word  he  would  n't  touch  a  drop 
of  liquor  in  Ullbrig  for  three  months,  so  now  he  has  to 
trot  off  to  Shippus  instead."  The  Spawer  listened,  but 
could  get  not  the  faintest  hint  of  the  delinquent's  passage. 
"So  now,"  Father  Mostyn  took  up,  starting  his  hand  on 
again  with  a  descriptive  relaxation  of  its  muscles,  as 
though  the  culprit  had  just  rounded  the  corner,  and  there 
were  nothing  further  of  him  worth  listening  for,  "... 
we  've  got  the  whole  case  in  the  hollow  of  our  hands. 
We  see  that  the  breach  with  the  family  was  brought 
about  by  her  own  act,  and  that  that  act  was  marriage. 
But  it  was  n't  merely  marriage  against  the  General's 
consent  or  sanction.  Marriages  of  disobedience  and  self- 
will  are  nearly  always,  in  our  priestly  experience,  for- 
given at  the  birth  of  the  first  child;  more  especially,  of 
course,  if  it  happens  to  be  a  son.  .  .  .  Therefore  we  must 
find  a  stronger  divisional  factor  than  a  marriage  of  diso- 
bedience. Ha !  undoubtedly.  A  marriage  of  derogation. 
No  mistaking  it.  A  marriage  of  derogation.  She  mar- 
ried beneath  her.  That  's  'an  unpardonable  offence  in 
families  of  birth  and  position.  We  can  forgive  a  daugh- 
ter for  marrying  above  her,  but  we  can't  forgive  a 
daughter  for  marrying  beneath  her — even  when  she  's  the 
only  daughter  we  've  got.  Moreover,  this  case  was  badly 
aggravated  by  the  fact  that  there  was  no  money  in  it. 
She  fell  in  love  with  some  penniless  scamp  of  a  fellow, 
with  an  irresistible  black  moustache  and  dark  eyes — there 
are  plenty  of  'em  knocking  about  in  London  society,  who 
could  n't  produce  a  receipted  bill  or  a  banker's  reference 
to  save  their  lives — got  her  trousseau  together  by  stealth ; 
had  it  all  proudly  embroidered  with  the  name  she  was 
about  to  take ;  kissed  her  father  more  affectionately  than 


94  THE  POST-GIRL 

usual  one  night  .  .  .  and  the  next  morning  was  up  with 
the  lark  and  miles  away."  He  kept  casting  the  ingre- 
dients one  after  another  into  the  hypothetical  pancheon 
with  a  throw  of  alternate  hands— the  right  hand  for  the 
sin  she  had  committed;  the  left  hand  for  the  penniless 
scamp  of  a  fellow;  the  right  hand  again  for  her  trous- 
seau ;  the  left  hand  for  the  elopement,  and  so  on,  with  all 
the  unction  of  a  chef  engaged  upon  the  preparation  of 
some  great  dish,  and  stuck  the  spoon  into  it  with  a  fine, 
conclusive  "Ha !" 

"After  that,"  said  he,  interrupting  the  sentence  for  a 
moment  to  give  two  or  three  reclamatory  puffs  at  his 
pipe,  "the  rest  's  as  plain  as  print.  She  'd  made  a  bad 
bargain  with  her  family,  and  she  'd  made  a  worse  with 
her  husband.  Depend  upon  it.  Searle  was  a  gambler— 
an  improvident,  prodigal,  reckless  rascal — who  tapped 
what  money  she  had  like  a  cask  of  wine.  As  soon  as 
Pamela  was  born,  the  wretched  woman  began  to  see 
where  things  were  drifting.  She  dared  n't  suggest  re- 
trenchment to  her  husband,  but  she  began  to  practise  a 
few  feeble  economies  in  the  house  and  upon  her  own 
person.  No  more  silks  and  satins  after  that.  No  more 
embroidered  chemises.  No  more  fine  linen.  Nothing 
new  for  Pamela,  where  anything  could  be  cut  down. 
Nothing  new  for  herself,  where  anything  old  would  do. 
Cheapen  the  living  here,  cheapen  the  living  there — until 
at  last,  thank  God!  in  the  fourth  year  of  his  reign,  this 
monstrnm  nulla  lirtute  redemptum  a  intiis  takes  to  his 
wife's  bed — not  having  one  of  his  own— and  does  her  the 
involuntary  kindness  of  dying  in  it.  So  our  Blessed  Lady 
leads  Pamela  and  her  mother  to  Ullbrig  by  gradual  stages, 
and  there,  the  mother's  share  in  the  work  being  done,  she 


THE  POST-GIRL  95 

is  permitted  to  fall  asleep.  Ha!  Friend  Morland"— he 
approached  the  tumbler  to  his  lips  under  cover  of  the 
apostrophe,  and  sought  the  ceiling  in  drinking  with  a 
rapturous  eye,  "...  you  never  drove  a  better  bargain 
in  your  life  than  when  you  acquired  a  resident  daughter 
of  Mary  with  a  premium  of  thirty  pounds.  Look  at  all 
the  blessings  that  have  been  specially  bestowed  upon  you 
for  her  sake.  Look  at  the  boots  that  get  worn  out  in 
tramping  backwards  and  forwards  to  the  Post  Office 
since  Heaven  put  into  our  heads  the  notion  of  buying 
penny  stamps  in  two  ha'penny  journeys,  and  calling 
round  to  let  you  know  we  shall  be  wanting  a  post-card 
in  the  morning.  Did  our  young  men  do  this  before 
Pam's  time?  And  where  do  we  carry  all  our  boots  and 
shoes  to  when  they  have  n't  another  ha'penny  journey  in 
their  soles?  Not  to  Cobbler  Roden.  Cobbler  Roden 
does  n't  shelter  a  daughter  of  Mary.  Cobbler  Roden 
does  n't  shelter  a  daughter  of  anybody— not  even  his  own 
— if  he  can  help  it.  Not  to  Cobbler  Dingwall.  Cobbler 
Dingwall  does  n't  shelter  a  daughter  of  Mary.  Heaven 
sends  down  no  blessing  on  Cobbler  Dingwall's  work. 
We  find  it  's  clumsy  and  does  n't  last.  No,  we  don't  take 
'em  to  any  of  these.  We  take  'em  to  Shoemaker  Morland. 
That  's  where  we  take  'em.  Shoemaker  Morland.  He  's 
the  man.  All  the  rest  are  only  cobblers,  being  under  no 
patronage  of  Blessed  Mary,  but  friend  Morland  's  a 
shoemaker.  Moreover,  the  Post  Office  has  n't  lacked  for 
lodgers  since  Pam  came  to  it — there  's  the  schoolmaster 
there  now.  A  strange,  un-get-at-able  sort  of  a  fellow,  to 
be  sure,  whom  I  strongly  suspect  of  nursing  secret  ag- 
gression against  the  Church ;  still  a  payer  of  bills,  and  in  that 
respect  a  welcome  addition  to  the  Morland  household." 


96  THE  POST-GIRL 

"Friend  Morland,  then,"  said  the  Spawer,  "combines 
the  offices  of  shoemaker  and  postmaster-general  for  Ull- 
brig?" 

Father  Mostyn  forefingered  the  statement  correctively. 

"Those  are  his  offices.  But  he  does  n't  combine  them. 
He  keeps  them  scrupulously  distinct.  One  half  of  him  is 
postmaster-general  and  the  other  is  shoemaker.  I  forget 
just  at  the  moment  which  half  of  him  you  Ve  got  to  go 
to  if  you  want  stamps,  but  you  might  just  as  well  try  to 
get  cream  from  a  milk  biscuit  as  buy  stamps  at  the  shoe- 
making  side.  Apart  from  these  little  peculiarities,  how- 
ever, he  's  as  inoffensive  a  specimen  of  dissent  as  any 
Christian  might  hope  to  find.  Without  a  trained  theo- 
logical eye  one  might  take  him  any  day  for  a  hard-work- 
ing, respectable  member  of  the  True  Body.  His  humility 
in  spiritual  matters  is  almost  Catholic.  You  'd  be  aston- 
ished to  find  such  humility  in  the  possession  of  a  Non- 
conformist—until you  knew  what  exalted  influence  had 
brought  it  about.  He  repudiates  the  Nonconformist  doc- 
trine that  the  Divine  copyright  of  teaching  souls  goes 
along  with  the  possession  of  a  fourpenny  Bible.  His 
view  on  the  question  is  that  the  Book  'takes  overmuch 
understanding  to  try  and  explain  to  anybody  else.'  On 
this  point,  with  respect  to  Pamela,  I  'd  never  had  any 
trouble  with  him.  She  's  been  born  and  brought  up  in 
the  Church ;  she  'd  true  Church  blood  in  her  veins.  Her 
mother  was  a  Churchwoman.  Her  grandfather,  like  the 
gallant  old  soldier  that  he  was,  was  a  Churchman ;  a 
strong  officer  of  the  Church  Militant,  occupying  the 
family  pew  every  Sunday  morning,  who  would  have  died 
of  apoplectic  mortification  at  the  thought  that  any  de- 
scendant of  his  should  ever  sink  so  low  as  to  sit  on  the 


THE  POST- GIRL  97 

varnished  schismatical  benches  of  an  Ullbiig  meeting- 
house. All  which,  when  I  put  it  before  him,  Friend  Mor- 
land  saw  in  a  clear  and  catholic  spirit.  It  's  true  for  a 
short  time  he  wished  to  make  a  compromise — at  the  insti- 
gation of  his  wife,  undoubtedly — whereby  Pamela  was 
to  attend  church  in  the  mornings  and  meeting-house  in 
the  evening — a  most  odious  and  unscriptural  arrange- 
ment, quite  incompatible  with  canonical  teaching.  How- 
ever, special  light  of  grace  was  poured  into  his  heart 
from  above,  and  he  perceived  the  aged  General  in  such  a 
vivid  revelation  trembling  with  martial  anger  at  this  act 
of  indignity  to  one  of  his  flesh  and  blood,  that  he  woke 
up  in  a  great  sweat  two  nights  successively,  and  came 
running  before  breakfast  to  tell  me  that  the  spiritual  re- 
sponsibility of  a  general's  granddaughter  was  proving  too 
much  for  him,  and  he  'd  be  humbly  grateful  if  his  Rever- 
ence the  Vicar  would  take  the  matter  on  his  own  shoul- 
ders, and  bear  witness  (should  any  be  required)  that  he 
(John  William  Morland)  had  in  all  things  done  his  ut- 
most to  act  in  conformity  with  what  he  thought  to  be 
the  General's  wishes.  So  I  made  him  stand  up  in  the 
hall  and  recite  a  proper  declaratio  abjurationis  before  me 
then  and  there,  gave  him  his  coveted  ego  te  absolve 
Joannes,  and  received  Pamela  forthwith  as  spiritual  ward 
in  our  most  Catholic  Church." 

"But  is  she  going  to  consecrate  all  her  days  to  the 
carrying  of  letters?"  asked  the  Spawer,  in  a  voice  of 
some  concern.  "A  dieu  ne  plaise." 

Father  Mostyn  knocked  the  ashes  cautiously  out  of 
his  pipe  into  a  cupped  palm  and  threw  them  over  the 
hearth.  "There  's  the  rub.  That  's  what  I  've  been 

wanting  to  have  a  little  talk  with  you  about.    Her  bring- 

i 


98  THE  POST-GIRL 

ing  up  has  been  in  the  nature  of  a  problem — a  sort  of 
human  equation.  We  've  had  to  try  and  develop  all  her 
latent  qualities  of  birth  and  breed,  and  maintain  them  in 
a  state  of  exact  equilibrium  against  the  downward  forces 
of  environment.  Just  the  slightest  preponderance  on  one 
side  or  other  might  have  done  us.  Two  things  we  had 
to  bear  constantly  in  mind  and  reconcile,  so  far  as  we 
were  able,  from  day  to  day."  He  ticked  them  off  on  his 
fingers  like  the  heads  of  a  discourse  :  "First.  That  she  was 
a  lady ;  the  daughter  of  a  lady ;  the  granddaughter  of  a 
lady.  Second.  That  she  was  become  by  adoption  a  daugh- 
ter of  the  soil,  dependent  on  her  own  exertions  for  her 
subsistence  and  happiness.  At  one  time,  so  difficult  did 
the  two  things  seem  to  keep  in  adjustment,  I  had  serious 
thoughts  of  taking  her  bodily  under  my  own  charge  and 
packing  her  off  to  school.  But  after  a  while,  I  came  to 
reflect  that  it  would  be  an  act  of  great  unwisdom— apart 
from  the  fear  that  it  might  be  making  most  impious  inter- 
ference with  the  designs  of  Providence.  Providence 
plainly  had  brought  her,  and  to  send  her  off  again  for  the 
purpose  of  having  her  trained  exclusively  in  the  accom- 
plishments of  a  lady  would  simply  have  been  contempt  of 
the  Divine  laws  and  a  deferment  of  the  original  difficulty 
to  some  more  pressing  and  inopportune  moment.  My 
work,  you  see,  was  here  in  Ullbrig.  His  Reverence  is  tied 
to  the  soil  like  the  rest  of  us— ploughing,  sowing,  harrow- 
ing, scruffling,  hoeing,  and  reaping  all  his  days— though, 
for  the  matter  of  that,  there  's  precious  little  ear  he  gets 
in  return  for  his  spiritual  threshing.  Moreover,  there  's 
always  the  glorious  uncertainty  of  sudden  death  in  the 
harvest  field ;  and  then  what  would  be  likely  to  happen  to 
a  girl  thrown  on  her  own  resources  at  the  demise  of  her 


THE  POST- GIRL  99 

only  friend  and  protector?  Would  she  be  better  circum- 
stanced to  face  the  world  bravely  as  a  child  with  his 
Reverence  helping  her  unostentatiously  by  her  elbow  and 
accustoming  her  to  it,  or  as  a  young  lady  in  fresh  be- 
wilderment from  boarding-school,  with  his  Reverence 
fast  asleep  in  the  green  place  he  's  chosen  for  himself 
under  the  east  window  ?  Ha !  no  mistake  about  it.  His 
Reverence  has  seen  too  many  nursery  governesses  and 
mothers'  helps  and  ladies'  companions  recruited  straight 
from  the  school-room,  with  red  eyes  and  black  serge,  to 
risk  Pamela's  being  among  the  number.  Out  in  the  world 
there  's  no  knowing  what  might  happen  or  have  happened 
to  her.  Here  in  Ullbrig,  you  see,  she  stands  on  a  pedestal 
to  herself,  above  all  our  local  temptations.  Temptations, 
in  the  mundane  sense  of  the  word,  don't  exist  for  her. 
One  might  as  well  suppose  the  possibility  of  your  being 
tempted  from  the  true  canons  of  musical  art  by  hearing 
Friend  Barclay  sing  through  the  tap-room  window  of  the 
Blue  Bell,  or  of  his  Reverence  the  Vicar's  being  prose- 
lytised to  Methodism  by  hearing  Deacon  Dingwall  Jack- 
son pray  the  long  prayer  with  his  eyes  shut.  No;  our 
local  sins  fall  away  from  Pamela  as  naturally  and  unre- 
garded as  water  off  a  duck's  back.  Such  sins  as  she  has 
are  entirely  spiritual — little  sins  of  indiscrimination,  we 
may  term  them.  The  sin  of  generosity — giving  too  much 
of  her  favor  to  the  schismatical ;  the  sin  of  toleration — 
inclining  too  leniently  towards  the  tenets  of  dissent;  the 
sin  of  forbearance — making  too  much  allowance  for  the 
sins  and  wickednesses  of  others;  the  sin  of  equanimity — 
being  too  little  angered  by  the  assaults  and  designs  of  the 
unfaithful  against  Holy  Church — all  beautiful  qualities 
of  themselves  when  confined  to  the  temporal  side  of  con- 


ioo  THE  POST-GIRL 

duct,  but  sinful  when  thoughtlessly  prolongated  into  the 
domain  of  spirituals,  where  conduct  should  subordinate 
itself  to  the  exact  scale  of  scientific  theology.  Spiritual 
conduct  without  strict  theological  control  is  music  with- 
out bars ;  poetry  without  metre ;  a  ship  without  a  rudder ; 
free-will;  nonconformity;  dissent;  infidelity;  agnos- 
ticism; atheistic  darkness.  Ha!  but  our  concern  for 
her  future  is  n't  on  these  counts.  The  question  that  's 
bothering  us  now,  as  you  rightly  put  it,  is:  Is  she  go- 
ing to  consecrate  all  her  days  to  the  carrying  of  let- 
ters?" 

"As  a  career,"  commented  the  Spawer,  "I  'm  afraid 
there  's  not  much  to  recommend  it.  The  office  of  post- 
girl  seems,  from  what  I  know  about  the  subject,  peculiar 
to  Ullbrig.  There  's  precious  little  chance  of  promotion, 
I  should  think.  She  might  slip  into  the  telegraph  de- 
partment, perhaps,  but  from  a  place  like  Ullbrig  even 
that  's  something  of  a  step." 

"I  was  n't  so  much  thinking  of  the  telegraphic  depart- 
ment," Father  Mostyn  explained,  "...  though,  of 
course,  it  had  suggested  itself  to  me.  But  I  'd  been  think- 
ing ...  it  came  upon  me  rather  forcibly  .  .  .  partly 
since  your  arrival  .  .  .  after  our  first  little  talk  together 
.  .  .  and  I  wondered.  Of  course,  the  telegraph  depart- 
ment could  be  held  in  view  as  a  reserve.  But  I  'd  rather 
got  the  idea  ..."  a  certain  veil  of  obscurity  seemed  to 
settle  down  upon  his  Reverence  at  this  point,  as  though 
a  sea-mist  were  drifting  in  among  his  words.  "You  see," 
he  said,  suddenly  abandoning  the  attempt  at  frontal  clear- 
ance and  making  a  detour  to  come  round  the  thickness  of 
his  difficulty,  "Pamela  's  altogether  a  remarkable  girl. 
She  's  not  the  least  bit  like  the  rest  of  us.  She  can  do 


THE  POST-GIRL  101 

everything  under  the  sun,  except  kill  chickens.  She  can't 
kill  chickens;  but  she  can  cook  'em.  And  she  can  make 
Ullbrig  pies  till  you  could  swear  Mrs.  Dixon  had  done 
'em.  And  she  can  bake  bread — white  bread,  as  white 
as  snow  for  Friend  Morland's  delicate  stomach ;  and 
brown  bread  as  brown  as  shoe-leather  and  mellow  as 
honey  for  his  Reverence  the  Vicar.  Three  loaves  a  week 
without  fail,  because  there  's  nobody  else  in  Ullbrig  can 
make  'em  to  his  satisfaction — and  she  wanted  to  have  the 
paying  for  'em  herself  into  the  bargain.  And  she  can 
paper-hang  and  paint.  She  and  his  Reverence  are  going 
to  undertake  a  few  matters  of  church  decoration  shortly. 
And  she  can  milliner  and  dressmake.  If  it  was  n't  for 
Pamela,  Emma  Morland  would  soon  lose  her  reputation 
as  our  leading  society  modiste.  Not  even  the  brass  plate 
would  save  her — if  she  polished  it  three  times  a  day. 
Ullbrig  does  n't  want  brass  plates;  Ullbrig  wants  style. 
So  when  Ullbrig  goes  to  Emma  Morland  for  a  new  dress 
and  Pamela  's  not  there,  Ullbrig  says,  'Oh,  it  does  n't  mat- 
ter just  then,  it  '11  call  again.'  Ha !  says  it  '11  call  again. 
But  what  I  wanted  to  illustrate  .  .  .  with  regard  to  tele- 
graphic departments,  of  course  .  .  .  you  see  .  .  .  her  re- 
markable versatility.  Not  only  that  ..."  the  old  fog 
showed  signs  of  settling  over  him  once  more,  but  he 
shook  it  off  with  a  decisive  spurt.  "She  's  inherited 
music  from  her  mother  in  a  marked  degree.  It  seems  to 
come  naturally  to  her.  I  think  you  'd  be  surprised. 
What  little  bit  I  've  been  able  to  do  for  her  I  've  done— 
taught  her  the  proper  value  of  notation,  the  correct  ob- 
servance of  harmonies,  clefs,  solfeggio,  scales,  legato, 
contra  punctum,  and  so  forth.  The  amazing  thing  is  the 
way  she  's  picked  it  up.  Not  a  bit  of  trouble  to  her,  ap- 


102  THE  POST-GIRL 

patently.  What  I  should  have  done  without  her  at  the 
organ— she  's  our  ecclesiastical  organist,  you  know— I 
dare  n't  think.  And  it  occurred  to  me  ...  I  felt  it 
would  be  such  a  pity  to  let  the  chance  go  by  ...  if  we 
could  only  induce  you.  .  .  .  You  see,  she  's  not  exactly  an 
ordinary  girl.  Different  from  the  rest  of  us  altogether. 
.  .  .  And  I  thought  if  we  could  only  induce  you  to  give 
her  the  benefit  of  a  little  musical  advice  ..."  He 
paused  inferentially. 

"With  a  view,"  asked  the  Spawer,  "to  what  is  diabol- 
ically called  the  profession  ?" 

Father  Mostyn  caught  the  note  of  dissuasive  alarm. 

"Ha!  not  exactly  the  profession  ..."  he  said.  "I 
was  n't  so  much  meaning  that.  But  I  thought,  you  see, 
she  'd  appreciate  it  so  much  .  .  .  and  there  'd  be  no  fear 
of  her  abusing  your  favor  in  the  slightest  degree.  Un- 
fortunately .  .  .  I  'm  afraid  you  'd  find  our  piano  rather 
below  par  .  .  .  the  Ullbrig  air  has  a  peculiar  corrodent 
action  upon  the  strings.  Tuning  's  no  good;  indeed,  it 
only  seems  to  unsettle  'em.  But  if  ...  sometime  when 
you  're  here  you  would  n't  mind  my  asking  her  in  ... 
just  for  a  short  while?" 

"Not  the  least  bit  in  the  world,"  said  the  Spawer. 
"And  for  as  long  as  you  like." 

"Ha !"  The  fog  lifted  off  Father  Mostyn's  utterance  in 
sudden  illumination  of  sunlight,  and  he  rubbed  his  knees 
jocosely.  "I  thought  we  should  manage  it.  Capital ! 
capital !  We  must  fix  up  a  sort  of  a  soiree  some  night. 
That  's  what  we  must  do.  Fix  up  a  sort  of  soiree  some 
night  and  feed  you.  We  won't  speak  of  dining;  that  's 
a  word  we  leave  behind  us  when  we  come  to  Ullbrig. 


THE  POST-GIRL  103 

But  we  '11  feed  you,  and  give  Pamela  a  chance  to  display 
her  culinary  skill.     Of  course,  we  know  all  about  our 

little  business  of  last  night,  so  we  need  n't  speak  darkly. 

» 

"The  deuce  we  do !"  exclaimed  the  Spawer,  laughing. 
"And  I  've  been  thinking  all  the  time  we  did  n't." 

Father  Mostyn  spread  his  fingers  with  priestly  unction. 

"That,"  said  he,  "is  one  of  our  fatal  Ullbrig  errors; 
always  to  think  that  his  Reverence  does  n't  know  things. 
No  matter  how  many  times  we  prove  to  our  cost  that  he 
does,  we  go  on  acting  upon  the  supposition  that  he 
does  n't.  It  's  a  source  of  endless  trouble  to  us.  Of 
course,  in  the  present  instance,  we  absolve  you.  Your 
tongue  was  honorably  tied.  Pamela  told  me  all  about 
it  this  morning — she  was  full  of  the  music  and  your  good- 
ness, and  the  desire  to  tell  me  what  she  'd  done  before 
silence  made  a  hypocrite  of  her.  Indeed,  she  was  hor- 
ribly afraid,  poor  girl,  that  she  was  becoming  an  Ullbrig 
hypocrite  already.  As  though  there  were  a  grain  of 
hypocrisy  in  the  whole  of  her  nature.  But  that  's  what 
we  must  do.  We  must  rig  up  a  sort  of  soiree  some  night 
and  feed  you." 

How  the  soiree  and  the  feeding  were  going  to  affect 
the  vital  question  of  the  girl's  future  did  not  altogether 
transpire — though  this  one  subject  carried  them  hence- 
forth into  the  small  hours,  and  the  Spawer  used  no  in- 
considerable skill  to  elicit  some  clear  understanding  on 
the  point,  and  when  finally  the  Spawer  slid  away  from 
the  Vicarage  gate  under  a  deep  July  skyful  of  stars,  the 
words  floated  in  mystic  meaning  about  his  ears  like  the 
ringing  of  sanctus  bells. 


io4  THE  POST-GIRL 

And  as  far  away  as  the  very  last  gate  of  all,  when  the 
Spawer  turned  his  head  back  towards  the  scene  of  his 
evening,  he  seemed  to  hear  the  bells  wafting  to  him  over 
the  corn,  as  though  languid  with  pursuit : 

"...  Feed  you.    Feed  you.    Feed  .  .  .  you." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

PAM  had  grown  up  in  the  sight  of  Ullbrig,  variously 
loved  and  hated  for  her  self-same  virtues;  and  on  a 
day  when  the  time  seemed  not  yet  ripe  (for  fear  some 
more  enterprising  spirit  might  pluck  it  green),  the  men 
of  Ullbrig  and  of  Whivvle,  and  of  Merensea  and  of 
Garthston,  and  of  Sproutgreen  and  of  Ganlon,  and  of 
Hunmouth  even,  arose,  gave  a  pull  to  their  waistcoats, 
and  took  turns  at  offering  themselves  before  her  on  the 
matrimonial  altar.  That,  as  you  may  imagine,  made  Pam 
more  enemies  than  ever. 

Who  the  first  man  was  to  win  the  honor  of  her  refusal 
has  not  been  established  on  a  sufficiently  authoritative 
basis  for  publication  in  this  volume,  but  after  him  came 
a  constant  stream  of  postulants.  She  could  have  had  any 
man  she  liked  for  the  lifting  of  her  little  finger;  hardly 
one  of  them  got  married  but  took  the  wife  he  did  be- 
cause he  could  n't  take  Pam.  George  Cringle,  indeed, 
from  Whivvle  way,  boldly  challenged  her  to  marry  him 
while  his  own  banns  were  up  with  the  daughter  of  the 
Garthston  miller. 

"Oh,  George,"  said  Pam,  when  he  stopped  her  by  the 
smock-mill  on  the  Whivvle  road  and  made  his  views 
known  to  her ;  too  much  shocked  by  his  dreadful  duplicity 
to  exult  over  her  sister's  downfall  as  an  Ullbrig  girl 
might  have  done.  "However  could  you." 

-"Ah  could  very  well,"  said  George  resourcefully,  mis- 
construing the  reproval  into  an  encouraging  query  about 

105 


io6  THE  POST-GIRL 

how  the  thing  was  to  be  done.  "An'  ah  '11  tell  y'  t'  way. 
Ah  'd  send  my  brother  to  let  'er  know  ah  'd  gotten  chance 
o'  betterin'  mysen,  an'  wor  gannin'  to  tek  it,  an'  we  'd 
'ave  me  an'  you's  names  called  i'  Oolbrig  Choch.  Noo, 
what  div  ye  say  ?" 

Pam  said  "No,"  and  preached  one  of  the  prettiest  open- 
air  sermons  you  ever  heard.  It  was  on  love  and  mar- 
riage; telling  how  true  love  was  essential  to  happiness, 
and  how  marriage  without  love  was  mere  mockery,  and 
how  the  man  that  betrayed  the  affections  of  a  girl  by  de- 
meaning her  in  the  sight  of  another  was  not  worthy  to 
be  called  man  at  all ;  and  how,  if  George  did  n't  care  for 
Rose,  he  ought  never  to  have  soiled  his  lips  with  the 
falsehood  of  saying  he  did  ("Ay,  ah  do,  bud  ah  care  for 
you  a  deal  better,"  said  George) ;  and  how  he  ought  to 
try  and  make  himself  worthy  of  Rose,  and  she  of  him ; 
and  how,  if  he  really  felt  that  that  was  impossible,  he 
ought  to  stand  forth  boldly  and  proclaim  so  before  it  was 
too  late  ("Ah  'm  ready,  onnytime  ye  tell  me,"  said 
George)  ;  but  how  Pam  knew  that  George  was  a  good 
fellow  at  heart  ("Ah  div  n't  say  there  is  n't  them  'at  's  as 
good,"  said  George,  modestly,  "if  ye  know  t'  place  to 
look  for  'em")  ;  and  how,  doubtless,  he  did  n't  mean  any 
harm  ("Ah-sure  ah  div  n't") ;  and  so  on  ...  much  as 
you  Ve  seen  it  all  put  in  books  before,  but  infinitely  more 
beautiful,  because  Pam's  own  dear  face  was  the  page, 
and  Pam's  lips  the  printed  words ;  and  George  stood  and 
watched  her  with  his  own  lips  reforming  every  word  she 
said,  in  a  state  of  nodding  rapture. 

"Gan  yer  ways  on,"  he  begged  her,  when  at  last  she 
came  to  a  stop.  "Ah  can  tek  as  much  as  ye  've  got  to  gie 
me." 


THE  POST- GIRL  107 

"I  've  finished,"  said  Pam. 

"Ay ;  bud  can't  ye  think  o'  onnythink  else  ?"  he  inquired 
anxiously.  "Ah  like  to  'ear  ye — an'  it  mud  do  me  some 
good.  Rose  could  n't  talk  i'  that  fashion,  ah  '11  a-wander. 
Nay ;  Rose  could  n't  talk  same  as  yon.  Not  for  nuts,  she 
could  n't.  She  's  a  fond  'un,  wi'  nowt  to  say  for  'ersen 
bud,  'Oh,  George !  gie  ower.'  What  did  ye  tell  me  ah  'ad 
to  prawclaim?"  he  asked,  with  a  crafty  attempt  to  lure 
Pam  on  again.  "Ah  want  to  mek  right  sure  ah  en  't  for- 
gotten owt." 

Whereupon  Pam  wrought  with  her  wavering  brother  a 
second  time. 

"Ay;  it  's  all  right  what  ye  've  telt  me,"  he  said,  in 
deep-hearted  concurrence,  when  her  words  drew  to  an 
end  once  more.  "Ah  know  it  is.  Ye  've  gotten  right  pig 
by  t'  lug,  an'  no  mistek.  .  .  .  Well?  What  div  ye  say? 
Mun  ah  send  my  brother  to  tell  'er  ah  s'll  not  be  there  o' 
Monday  week  ?" 

Pam  ground  her  little  heel  into  the  dust  for  departure, 
and  threw  up  her  head  with  a  fine  show  of  pitying  dis- 
dain. 

"Some  day,  George  Cringle,"  she  told  him  in  leaving, 
"you  may  be  sorry  when  you  think  of  this." 

"Ah  can't  be  na  sorrier  nor  ah  am  to-day,  very  well," 
George  admitted  sadly,  "...  if  ye  mean  'No.' " 

"I  do,"  said  Pam,  with  emphasis. 

"Well,  then,"  George  decided,  "there  's  nowt  no  more 
for  it.  Things  '11  'a  to  gan  on  as  they  are." 

Which  they  did. 

Any  other  girl  might  have  been  ruined  with  all  this 
adulation;  all  these  proposals  open  and  covert;  all  these 
craning  necks;  these  obvious  eye-corners — but  Pam  was 


108  THE  POST-GIRL 

only  sorry,  and  sheer  pity  softened  her  heart  till  many 
thought  she  had  merely  said  "No"  in  order  to  encourage 
a  little  pressing.  And  indeed,  Pam  said  "No"  so  nicely, 
so  lovingly,  so  tenderly,  so  sorrowfully,  so  sympathet- 
ically, and  with  so  little  real  negation  about  the  sound  of 
it,  that  one  woke  up  ultimately  with  a  shock  to  realise  the 
word  meant  what  it  did.  Some  even  found  it  difficult  to 
wake  up  at  all. 

"What  div  ye  keep  sayin'  'Naw'  for?"  asked  Jevons, 
with  a  perplexity  amounting  to  irritation,  when  he  had 
asked  her  to  be  the  mother  of  two  grown-up  daughters 
and  a  son,  ready-made,  and  Pam  had  not  seen  her  way. 
"Ah  s'll  be  tekkin'  ye  at  yer  wod,  an'  then  'appen  ye  '11 
wish  ye  'd  thought  better  on.  Noo,  let  's  know  what  ye 
mean,  an'  gie  us  a  plain  answer  to  a  plain  question.  Will 
ye 'a  me?" 

"No  ..."  said  Pam  again,  shaking  her  head  sorrow- 
fully. Not  N-O,  NO,  as  it  looks  here  in  print— hard, 
grim,  inexorable,  forbidding;  but  her  own  soft  "No," 
stealing  out  soothingly  between  her  two  lips  like  the 
caress  of  a  hand;  more  as  though  it  were  a  penitential 
"Yes"  in  nun's  habit,  veiled  and  hooded— a  sort  of  mono- 
syllabic Sister  of  Mercy. 

"See-ye !  There  ye  are  agen,"  said  Jevons,  convicting 
her  of  it  with  his  finger.  "Noo,  what  am  ah  to  mek  on 
ye?" 

"Oh,  nothing  at  all,  please,"  Pam  begged  of  him,  with 
solicitous  large-eyed  humility  through  her  thick  lashes. 
"Don't  bother  to  try.  It  's  not  as  though  I  was  worth  it 
...  or  ...  or  the  only  one.  You  '11  be  sure  to  find 
plenty  of  somebody  elses  .  .  .  There  are  just  lots  of 
girls  .  .  .  older  than  me  too  ...  who  'd  be  only  too  glad 


THE  POST-GIRL  109 

to  say  'Yes'  .  .  .  and  be  better  for  you  in  every 
way." 

"Ay,  ah  know  there  is,"  Jevons  assented,  with  refresh- 
ing candor.  "Lots  on  'em.  Bud  ah  mud  as  lief  finish 
wi'  you  sin'  ah  've  gotten  started  o'  ye.  T'  others  '11  'ave 
to  be  looked  for,  an'  ah  can't  reckon  to  waste  mah  time  i' 
lookin'  for  nawbody.  Work  gets  behint  enough  as  it  is. 
Noo,  let  's  come  tiv  a  understandin'.  'Ave  ye  gotten 
onnything  agen  me  ?" 

"Oh,  no,  no,"  said  Pam,  all  her  sympathies  in  alarm  at 
the  mere  suggestion,  lest  it  might  have  been  derived  from 
any  act  or  word  of  hers.  "Indeed  I  have  n't." 

"Well,"  said  Jevons  himself,  stroking  down  the  subject 
complacently.  "Nor  ah  div  n't  see  rightly  i'  what  way 
ye  sewd.  Ah  'm  a  widdiwer— if  that  's  owt  agen  a  man? 
Bud  if  it  is,  ah  s'll  want  to  be  telt  why.  An'  ah  've  gotten 
a  family — so  it  's  no  use  say  in'  ah  en't.  Bud  it  '11  be  a 
caution  if  there  's  owt  agen  a  man  o'  that  score.  There  '11 
be  a  deal  o'  names  i'  Bible  to  disqualify  for  them  'at  say 
there  is.  An'  ah  've  gotten  seummut  ah  can  lay  my  'ands 
on  at  bank  onnytime  it  rains — though  it  '11  'a  to  rain 
strangelins  'ard  an'  all  before  ah  do.  Ah  's  think  ye 
weean't  say  'at  that  's  owt  agen  a  man  ?" 

"Not  a  bit,"  said  Pam  conciliatorily.  And  then,  with 
all  the  steadfast  resolution  of  her  teens:  "I  shall  never 
marry,"  she  told  him. 

Only  girls  in  their  teens — taking  life  very  seriously  be- 
cause of  them — ever  say  that.  When  they  get  older  they 
commit  themselves  to  no  such  rash  statement,  lest  it 
might  be  believed. 

Ginger's  turn  took  place  in  the  Post  Office  itself.  He 
had  been  waiting  for  it  for  six  weeks,  so,  of  course,  being 


no  THE  POST-GIRL 

fully  prepared,  it  caught  him  at  a  disadvantage  when  it 
came.  As  he  slipped  into  the  Post  Office  his  prayer  "was 
for  Pam,  but  after  he  'd  got  inside  and  remembered  what 
he  'd  sworn  to  do  if  it  were,  he  prayed  it  might  be  the 
postmaster,  until  he  thought  he  heard  him  coming,  when 
his  heart  sank  at  another  opportunity  lost,  and  he  changed 
the  prayer  to  Pam  again.  He  was  still  juggling  with  it 
from  one  to  the  other,  with  incredible  swiftness  and  dex- 
terity, when  there  was  a  sudden  ruffle  of  skirts  and  Pam 
stood  waiting  behind  the  counter,  with  her  knuckles  on 
the  far  edge  of  it,  in  a  delightful  transcription  of  the  post- 
master's position. 

"Well,  Ginger,"  she  said,  nodding  her  beautiful  head  at 
him.  (Ginger  being  also  a  surname,  it  was  quite  safe  to 
call  him  by  it.)  "Do  you  want  a  stamp?" 

".  .  .  Naw,  thank  ye.  At  least  ...  ah  'm  not  par- 
tic'lar.  Ay  ...  if  ye  've  gotten  one  to  spare  ..."  said 
Ginger.  "Bud  ye  Ve  n'  occasion  to  trouble  about  it  o' 
mah  account.  It  's  naw  consequence.  Ah  'm  not  so  sure 
ah  could  lick  it,  evens  if  ye  'ad  to  gie  me  it;  my  mouth  's 
that  dry  .  .  ." 

"Let  me  get  you  a  glass  of  milk,  then,"  said  Pam 
promptly,  showing  for  departure. 

"Nay,  ye  mun't,"  Ginger  forbade  her  in  a  burglar's 
whisper,  waking  up  suddenly  to  the  alarming  course  his 
conduct  was  taking— as  though  he  had  come  so  far  in  a 
dream.  "Milk  brings  me  out  i'  spots  i'  naw  time,  thank 
ye  ...  an'  besides,  ah  can  do  better  wi'out.  Wet 's  corn- 
in'  back  to  me  noo,  ah  think,  an'  ah  s'll  not  want  to  use 
stamp  while  to-morrer,  'appen  ...  or  day  after ;  if  then. 
'Appen  ah  s'll  sell  stamp  to  my  mother,  when  all  's 
said  and  done  .  .  .  thank  ye.  ...  Did  ye  see  what  ah 


THE  POST-GIRL  in 

did  wi'  penny?  It  ought  to  be  i'  one  o'  my  'ands,  an' 
it  's  not  no  longer.  Mah  wod !"  He  commenced  to  deal 
nervous  dabs  at  himself  here  and  there  as  though  he  were 
sparring  for  battle  with  an  invisible  adversary,  and  one, 
moreover,  he  feared  was  going  to  prove  the  master  of 
him.  "Ah  en't  swallered  'er,  ah  's  think.  There  's  a 
strange  taste  o'  copper  an'  all.  ..." 

"What 's  that  on  the  counter  ?"  asked  Pam. 

"Ay  ...  to  be  sure,"  said  Ginger,  with  a  mighty  air 
of  relief,  picking  up  the  penny  and  putting  it  in  his 
pocket.  "There  she  is.  .  .  .  Mah  wod,  if  ah  'd  slipped 
'er— she  mud  'a  been  finish  o'  me.  Well.  .  .  ."  It 
suddenly  occurred  to  him  that  he  'd  been  a  tremendous 
time  in  the  shop  delaying  Government  business,  and  his 
teeth  snapped  on  the  word  like  the  steel  grips  of  a  rat- 
trap.  "Ah  '11  wish  ye  good-night,"  he  said  abruptly,  and 
made  a  bolt  to  go. 

"Are  n't  you  going  to  pay  me,  Ginger?"  Pam  asked 
from  across  the  counter,  with  the  soft  simulation  of  re- 
proach. 

"What  for?"  Ginger  stopped  to  inquire  with  surprise. 

"For  the  stamp  I  gave  you,"  said  Pam. 

"Ay  .  .  .  noo,  see-ye.  Ah  wor  so  throng  wi'  penny  ah 
nivver  thought  no  more  about  stamp.  Did  ye  notice  what 
ahdidwi"er?" 

He  seemed  to  be  shaking  hands  with  himself  in  all  his 
pockets,  one  after  the  other. 

"In  your  waistcoat,"  said  Pam.  "That  's  it.  ...  No ; 
see!" — and  as  his  hands  still  waltzed  wide  of  the  indi- 
cated spot,  shot  two  little  fingers  over  the  counter,  stuck 
straight  out  like  curling-tongs,  and  into  his  waistcoat 
pocket  and  out  again,  with  the  stamp  between  them. 


H2  THE  POST-GIRL 

"There  you  are,"  she  said,  holding  it  up  before  his  eyes 
in  smiling  triumph  as  if  it  were  a  tooth  she  'd  extracted. 

"Ay  ..."  said  Ginger,  divining  it  dimly;  "ye  're  wel- 
come tiv  it." 

That  touch  of  her  hand  on  his  waistcoat,  and  the  little 
waft  of  warm  hair  that  went  with  it,  had  almost  undone 
him. 

"Don't  you  want  it?"  asked  Pam,  scanning  him  curi- 
ously. 

"Not  if  you  do,  ah  don't,"  said  Ginger.  "Ah  '11  mek  ye 
a  present  on  it." 

"Oh,  but  ,  .  . "  said  Pam,  with  the  tender  mouth  for  a 
kindness,  "it  's  awfully  good  of  you  .  .  .  but  we  've  got 
such  lots  of  them.  As  many  as  ever  we  want  and  more. 
You  'd  better  take  it,  Ginger." 

"Ay,  gie  it  me,  then,"  said  Ginger,  holding  his  waist- 
coat pocket  open,  "  'Appen  ye  weean't  mind  slippin'  it 
back  yessen,  an'  ye  '11  know  ah  've  gotten  it  safe."  The 
little  warm  waft  went  over  him  again,  and  he  shut  his 
eyes  instinctively,  as  though  to  the  passage  of  a  supreme 
spirit  whose  glory  was  too  great  to  be  looked  upon  by 
mortal  man.  "Diz  that  mek  us  right?"  he  asked  hazily, 
when  the  power  had  gone  by,  and  he  awoke  to  see  Pam 
looking  at  him. 

"Yes,"  said  Pam,  feeling  it  too  mean  to  ask  for  the 
penny  again  after  Ginger's  recent  display  of  generosity. 
"That  makes  us  all  right,  Ginger,  thank  you." 

"Same  to  you,"  said  Ginger.  "Ay,  an'  many  on  'em." 
Then  he  knew  his  hour  was  come.  "Ah  want  to  know 
..."  he  begged  unsteadily,  gripping  himself  tight  to 
the  counter's  edge,  and  speaking  in  a  voice  that  seemed 
to  him  to  boom  like  great  breakers  on  the  shore,  and 


THE  POST-GIRL  113 

must  be  audible  to  all  Ullbrig,  let  alone  the  Post  Office 
parlor— though  Pam  could  hardly  hear  him,  "if  ye  '11  re- 
mind me  ...  'at  ah  've  gotten  seummut  ...  to  ask  ye  ?" 

"I  will  if  I  can  only  remember,"  said  Pam  amiably, 
slipping  a  plump  round  profile  of  blue  serge  on  the  coun- 
ter and  swinging  a  leg  to  and  fro — judging  by  the  motion 
of  her.  "When  do  you  want  me  to  remind  you,  Ginger?" 

"Noo,  if  ye  like,"  said  Ginger. 

"This  very  minute  ?"  asked  Pam. 

"Nay,  bud  ah  think  not,"  said  Ginger,  backing  sud- 
denly in  alarm  from  the  imminence  of  his  peril.  "It  's 
not  tiv  a  minute  or  two.  Some  uvver  day,  'appen,  when 
you  're  not  busy." 

"Oh,  but  I  'm  not  busy  now,"  said  Pam,  stopping  her 
leg  for  a  second  at  Ginger's  recession,  and  setting  it  ac- 
tively in  motion  again  when  she  spoke,  as  though  to 
stimulate  his  utterance. 

"Ah  'm  jealous  y'  are,  though,"  said  Ginger,  with  a 
rare  show  of  diffidence  at  taking  her  word. 

"Indeed  I  'm  not,"  Pam  assured  him.  "I  promise  you 
I  'm  not,  Ginger.  Do  you  think  I  'd  say  that  to  you  if  I 
were  ?  Now,  what  is  it  you  want  to  ask  me  ?" 

"Can  ye  guess?"  Ginger  tested  her  cautiously,  with  a 
nervous,  twisted  smile— intended  to  carry  suggestion,  but 
looking  more  as  though  he  'd  bitten  his  tongue.  Pam 
thought  over  him  for  a  moment,  and  shook  her  head. 

"I  'm  not  a  bit  of  good  at  guessing-,"  she  said. 

"  'Appen  ye  'd  be  cross  if  ah  telt  ye,"  reflected  Ginger. 
"Ay,  ah  'd  better  let  it  alone  while  ah  'm  right.  Ah  mud 
mek  a  wuss  job  on  it." 

"Oh,  Ginger,  you  aggravating  boy,"  cried  Pam,  spur- 
ring a  dear,  invisible  heel  against  the  counter  to  urge 


ii4  THE  POST-GIRL 

him  on,  and  slapping  the  oilcloth  with  her  small  flat 
hand  till  Ginger's  ears  tingled  again  in  jealous  delight. 
"...  Go  on ;  go  on.  You  must  go  on.  You  '11  have  to 
tell  me  now,  or  I  '11  never  be  friends  with  you  again— 
and  I  shall  know  you  don't  care,  either." 

"Well,  then,"  Ginger  began,  pushed  reluctantly  for- 
ward by  this  direful  threat,  "...  it  's  this."  He  held 
on  to  it  as  long  as  he  could,  taking  breath,  and  then  when 
he  felt  he  could  n't  hold  on  any  longer,  he  suddenly  shut 
his  eyes  and  let  go,  saying  to  himself,  "Lord,  help  me !" 
and  to  Pam,  "Will  y'  'ave  me?" — so  quickly  and  indis- 
tinctly that  it  sounded  like  a  cat  boxed  up  under  the 
counter,  crying  "Me-ow." 

"Oh,  Ginger,"  Pam  apostrophised  him  mournfully, 
when  she  'd  begged  his  pardon  three  times,  and  he  'd 
mewed  after  each  one  until  at  the  third  she  'd  received  the 
inspiration  to  know  what  they  all  meant.  "I  wish  you  'd 
asked  me  anything  but  that." 

"There  wor  nowt  else  ah  'd  gotten  to  ask  ye,"  Ginger 
said  gloomily. 

"Because  .  .  ."  Pam  proceeded  gently  to  explain,  "I 
shall  have  to  say  'No.'  " 

"Ay,  ah  thought  ye  would,"  Ginger  threw  in.  "Ah 
know  very  well  ah  'm  not  good  enough  for  ye." 

"You  're  every  bit  good  enough  for  me,"  said  Pam, 
with  swift  tears  of  championship  in  her  eyes,  drawn 
there  by  his  masterstroke  of  humility.  "And  you  must 
never  say  that  again,  please,  even  if  you  don't  mean  it. 
It  's  very,  very  good  of  you  indeed  to  want  me,  Ginger. 
It  's  awfully  good  of  you;  and  I  'd  as  soon  say  'Yes'  to 
you  as  to  any  I  've  ever  said  'No'  to.  I  'm  sure  you  'd 
do  all  you  could  to  make  me  happy.  .  .  ." 


THE  POST- GIRL  115 

"Ay,  that  ah  would,"  said  Ginger,  snatching  hopefully 
at  the  small  bone  of  encouragement.  "Ah  'd  try  my  best. 
Is  it  onny  use  me  askin'  ye  agen  after  a  while? — say  to- 
morrer  or  Friday  ?  Ah  sewd  n't  think  owt  about  trouble." 

Pam  shook  her  head  regretfully. 

"I  'm  afraid  not,"  she  said.  "But  you  must  n't  imagine, 
Ginger,  it  's  because  I  don't  care  for  you,  or  because  I 
doubt  you.  It  's  myself  I  doubt,  if  I  doubt  anybody,  not 
you.  If  I  could  only  be  a  hundred  Pams  instead  of  just 
a  miserable  one,  I  'd  have  said  'Yes'  to  all  those  that 
asked  me.  I  know  I  should.  You  can't  think  how  it 
troubles  me  to  have  to  keep  on  saying  'No' — but  what 
am  I  to  do?  Everybody  asks  me  to  marry  them  ...  at 
least,  a  few  do  ...  and  as  I  can  only  marry  one,  I  'm 
frightened  it  might  be  the  wrong  one.  It  's  so  easy  to 
make  a  mistake — unless  you  're  very,  very  sure.  And 
I  'm  not;  and  I  feel  I  might  end  by  making  both  of  us 
unhappy.  ..." 

"Ah  'd  chance  that,"  said  Ginger,  with  resolution. 

"But  there  ought  to  be  no  chance  about  it,  Ginger," 
Pam  reproved  him  gently.  "Nobody  ought  ever  to 
marry  by  chance.  People  that  only  marry  by  chance  can 
only  hope  to  be  happy  by  chance — and  that  's  a  dreadful 
idea." 

"Ay,  ah  see  it  is,"  said  Ginger  hurriedly.  "Ah  beg  yer 
pardon." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Pam,  "...  you  understand  me, 
don't  you,  Ginger  ?" 

"Ah  'm  jealous  ah  do,"  said  Ginger  despondently. 

"And  you  're  not  angry  with  me  ...  for  what  I  Ve 
said  to  you  ?" 

"Nay,  ah  'm  not  angry  wi'  ye,"  said  Ginger.    "Ah  'm 


ii6  THE  POST-GIRL 

only  sorry.  Ah  misdoot  ah  s'll  not  be  i'  very  good  fettle 
for  my  supper  when  time  comes." 

"You  '11  shake  hands,  though,"  said  Pam,  catching  a 
certain  indication  that  he  was  about  to  depart  without. 

"Ay,  ah  sewd  like,  sin'  ye  're  good  enough  to  ask  me," 
Ginger  acknowledged  eagerly,  blundering  hold  of  her 
fingertips,  and  dropping  them  like  hot  coals  as  soon  as  he 
felt  the  desire  to  linger  over  them.  '"Appen  ye  '11  let  me 
.  .  .  shek  'ands  wi'  ye  ...  noo  an'  agean,"  he  asked 
Pam  humbly,  turning  his  coat  collar  up  to  go— not  that 
there  was  any  rain  at  the  time,  but  that  the  action  seemed 
somehow,  in  his  conception  of  things,  to  befit  the  hope- 
less finality  of  departure. 

"Whenever  you  like,  Ginger,"  Pam  promised  him,  with 
moist  lashes. 

"Thank  ye,"  said  Ginger,  making  for  the  door.  "Ah 
div  n't  know  ...  at  ah  s'll  trouble  ye  so  offens  .  .  .  but 
may'ap  it  mud  save  me  ...  fro'  gannin  altagether  to 
bad  if  ah  was  ...  to  shak  'em  noo  an'  agean." 

And  with  a  husky  farewell  he  dipped  out  of  the  office. 


CHAPTER  IX 

SO  Ginger  went  over  to  the  great  majority  of  those 
that  loved  Pam  and  lost  her,  and  in  his  own  hour 
was  as  sick  a  man  as  ever  you  might  wish  to  meet  out- 
side the  chapters  of  a  mediaeval  romance,  where  gallant 
knights  are  wont  to  weep  like  women,  and  women  stand 
the  sight  of  as  much  blood,  unmoved,  as  would  turn  the 
average  modern  man's  stomach  three  times  over.  But 
anything  like  a  complete  account  of  all  the  hopeless  loves 
that  had  Pam  for  their  inspiration  would  crowd  the  pages 
of  this  book  from  cover  to  cover,  and  still  leave  material 
for  a  copious  appendix,  and  any  amount  of  lesser  con- 
tributory literature.  "Pamela  Searle :  her  Time,  Life, 
Love,  and  Letters,"  including  several  important  and 
hitherto  unpublished  meat-bills  rendered  to  Mrs.  Gather- 
edge  by  Dingwall  Jackson,  with  a  frontispiece.  "  'Pamela 
Searle,'  being  a  barefaced  attempt  to  confound  the  think- 
ing public  as  much  as  possible  on  the  subject  of  this 
fascinating  character,  and  present  her  to  them  in  an  alto- 
gether novel  and  unreliable  light,  as  a  means  of  catching 
their  pennies — (truth  being  worse  than  useless  for  the 
purpose)  — with  a  vindication  of  Sheppardman  Stevens 
from  sundry  charges  that  have  been  customarily  laid 
against  him."—"  'Ullbrig,  Past  and  Present'—  (also  'Ram- 
bles Round') — fully  illustrated ;  containing  a  special  chap- 
ter on  Pamela  and  Father  Mostyn  in  the  light  of  recent 
investigation.  Compiled  to  serve  as  a  guide-book  to  the 

1x7 


ii8  THE  POST-GIRL 

district."  "  'Pamela  Searle,  the  Ullbrig  Letter-Carrier ; 
or,  What  can  Little  Ladies  do  ?'  A  tale  and  a  lesson.  By 
Mrs.  Griffin  (Good  Children  Series,  No.  105.)." 

It  is  no  secret  that  the  Garthston  parson  wanted  Pam 
as  badly  as  he  wanted  a  new  pair  of  trousers,  and  would 
have  had  her  at  a  moment's  notice  if  she  'd  only  asked 
him,  but  she  never  did;  and  he  wore  the  old  pair  to  the 
end.  And  the  Merensea  doctor  wanted  her  too— the 
same  that  came  in  for  six  thousand  pounds  when  his 
father  died,  and  married  his  housekeeper— but  Pam 
went  very  sad  and  soft  and  sorrowful  each  time  he  asked 
her  (which  was  generally  from  his  gig,  driving  some 
seven  miles  out  of  his  way,  by  Ullbrig,  to  reach  an  imag- 
inary patient  on  the  Merensea  side  of  Whivvle),  and  said 
"No,"  just  the  same  as  she  said  it  to  everybody  else,  with 
not  the  least  shade  of  an  eyelid's  difference  because  he 
happened  to  be  a  doctor — which  was  the  girl  all  over. 
No  supplicant  that  ever  supplicated  of  Pam  was  too 
mean  or  too  poor,  or  too  ridiculous  or  too  presuming,  in 
her  eyes,  ever  to  be  treated  with  the  slightest  breath  of 
contumely.  When  poor  Humpy  from  Ganlon,  whose 
legs  were  so  twisted  that  he  could  n't  tell  his  right  from 
his  left  for  certain  without  a  little  time  to  think,  asked  a 
Ganlon  lass  to  have  him,  she  screamed  derision  at  him 
like  a  hungry  macaw,  and  ran  out  at  once  to  spread  the 
news  so  that  it  should  overtake  him  (being  but  a  slow 
walker,  though  he  walked  his  best  on  this  occasion)  be- 
fore he  had  time  to  get  home.  When  he  asked  Pam  to 
have  him,  Pam  could  have  cried  over  him  for  pity,  to 
think  that  because  God  had  seen  fit  to  spoil  a  man  in  the 
making  like  this,  human  love  was  to  be  denied  him ;  and 
though,  of  course,  she  said  "No,"  she  said  it  so  beauti- 


THE  POST- GIRL  119 

that  Humpy  could  hardly  see  his  way  home  for  the 
proud  tears  of  feeling  himself  a  man  in  spite  of  all ;  and 
if,  after  that,  there  had  been  any  particular  thing  in  the 
whole  world  that  twisted  legs  could  have  done  for  a  girl, 
that  thing  would  have  been  done  for  Pam  so  long  as 
Humpy  was  alive  to  do  it. 

Lastly,  two  years  before  the  Spawer's  arrival,  the  old 
schoolmaster  grew  tired  of  teaching  and  died,  and  there 
came  a  new  one  in  his  place ;  a  younger  man,  pallid  and 
frail,  with  the  high  white  student's  forehead,  worn 
smooth  and  rounded  like  the  lamp  globe  he  'd  studied 
under ;  the  weak  brown  moustache  and  small  chin,  and  a 
cough  that  troubled  him  when  the  wind  was  east,  and 
took  up  his  lodgment  at  the  Post  Office.  Every  day  he 
sat  four  times  with  Pam  at  the  same  table — breakfast, 
dinner,  tea,  and  supper.  Every  morning,  when  the  clock 
struck  ten,  he  manoeuvred  over  his  toes  for  a  sight  of  the 
roadway  through  the  school-room  window,  and  if  the 
veins  in  his  forehead  swelled  and  his  jaw  muscles  con- 
tracted : 

"Ah  knaw  'oo  yon  '11  be,"  went  the  whisper  round  be- 
hind him. 

Once  he  was  ill,  drawing  the  breath  into  his  lungs  like 
great  anchor  chains  dragged  through  hawse-holes,  and 
Pam  nursed  him.  Dressed  the  pillows  under  his  head; 
laid  her  cool  hand  on  his  hot  forehead;  gave  him  his 
medicine ;  sat  through  the  night  with  him,  clasping  cour- 
age and  comfort  and  consolation  into  his  burning  fingers ; 
wrote  letters  for  him ;  read  for  him.  "Noo  we  s'll  be  get- 
tin'  telt  seummut  before  so  long,"  said  Ullbrig  to  itself. 
"A  jug  gans  to  pump  adeal  o'  times,  but  some  fond  lass  '11 
brek  it  before  she  's  done,"— but  the  schoolmaster  con- 


120  THE  POST-GIRL 

sumed  in  stillness  like  the  flame  of  a  candle.  There  were 
days  when  "Good  morning,  Yes,  No,  Please,  Thank  you, 
and  Good-night"  would  have  covered  all  that  he  said  to 
Pam  directly— and  even  then  the  veins  in  his  forehead  and 
the  tightening  muscles  about  his  jaws  reproved  him 
straightway,  as  though  he  had  already  said  too  much.  If, 
by  any  chance,  Pam  addressed  him  suddenly,  the  blood 
would  mount  up  to  his  forehead  and  the  outlines  of  his 
face  would  harden,  like  a  metal  cast  in  the  setting,  before 
he  spoke,  till  it  almost  looked  as  though  he  were  debating 
whether  he  should  give  her  any  reply.  And  the  reply 
given,  he  would  take  the  first  opportunity  of  turning  his 
back.  Indeed,  there  were  times  when  he  barely  waited 
for  the  opportunity,  but  clipped  his  sentence  in  the  middle 
and  threw  an  abrupt  word  over  his  shoulder  to  complete 
the  sense  of  it,  while  Pam  stood  sorrowfully  regarding 
the  two  familiar  threadbare  tail  buttons  and  the  shine 
about  the  back  of  the  overworked  morning  coat,  whose 
morning  knew  no  noon,  wondering  if  she  'd  said  anything 
to  offend  him.  Once,  when  he  had  swung  round  more 
abruptly  than  usual,  giving  her  the  reply  so  grudgingly 
that  it  fell  altogether  short  of  her  hearing,  as  though  he 
had  cast  a  copper  to  some  wayside  mendicant  for  peace's 
sake,  Pam— who  could  never  bear  to  leave  anything  in 
doubt  that  a  word  might  settle— asked  him  softly  if  he 
were  angry  with  her.  The  question  fetched  him  suddenly 
round  again,  with  the  appearance  of  warding  a  blow. 

"Angry  with  you  ?"  he  repeated.  There  was  the  hoarse- 
ness of  suppressed  emotion  about  his  voice,  and  his  lip 
trembled. 

"You  are  angry  with  me  now,  though,"  said  Pam 
mournfully,  "for  asking  you." 


THE  POST-GIRL  121 

And  indeed,  by  the  way  he  had  turned  upon  her  and 
spoken,  he  seemed  like  a  man  brought  to  the  sudden 
flash-point  of  passion  by  some  injudicious  word. 

"I  am  not  angry  with  you,"  he  said,  in  the  same  con- 
strained, hoarse  voice,  and  said  no  further,  but  put  his 
shoulders  between  them  again  as  though  the  subject  were 
too  unimportant  to  be  discussed. 

Then  Pam  made  a  discovery. 

"He  does  not  like  me,"  she  told  herself,  and  without 
showing  that  she  held  his  secret,  she  set  herself  in  her 
own  quiet,  gentle  fashion  to  verify  the  fact  by  observa- 
tion. He  was  never  a  man  of  many  words  at  any  time, 
but  she  saw  he  was  never  a  man  of  so  few  as  when  he 
was  with  her.  He  had  words  for  the  postmaster ;  he  had 
words  for  the  postmaster's  wife;  he  had  words  for 
Emma;  he  had  words — stray,  detached,  pedagogic  school- 
room words,  read  up  aloud  from  the  chalkings  on  an  in- 
visible blackboard — for  the  villagers.  But  for  Pam — 
Pam  saw  herself — he  had  only  the  constrained,  hard 
words  between  his  teeth  like  the  enforced  bit  of  a  horse, 
that  he  champed  fretfully  in  the  desire  to  break  away 
from  her. 

No.  Pam  knew  what  it  was.  He  liked  the  postmaster 
because  they  could  talk  the  papers  over  together,  and 
predict  terrible  things  about  the  country  to  each  other; 
and  he  liked  Emma  because  Emma  was  so  straightfor- 
ward and  sensible  and  earnest  looking — even  if  she 
was  n't  pretty,  which  perhaps,  after  all,  she  was  n't — and 
never  said  silly  things  she  did  n't  mean ;  and  he  liked 
Mrs.  Morland  because  nobody  could  help  liking  her — 
she  was  so  kind  and  motherly  and  sympathetic  and  talka- 
tive, and  so  full  of  allowances  for  other  people.  But 


122  THE  POST-GIRL 

Pam  1  ...  Well,  he  did  n't  care  about  Pam  because  .  .  . 
oh,  because  of  heaps  of  things,  perhaps.  It  was  n't  any 
use  trying  to  put  them  all  together.  Because  he  thought 
she  was  a  silly,  empty-headed  gad-about,  who  cared  for 
nothing  but  showing  herself  around  the  countryside .  .  . 
(but  that  was  n't  true  a  bit;  he  knew  it  was  n't!)  .  .  . 
and  being  asked  if  she  'd  have  people.  .  .  . 

Pam  doubled  up  one  little  hand  in  anguish,  and  stared 
at  an  invisible  something  in  front  of  her— that  seemed 
to  be  a  bogey  by  the  startled  look  she  gave  it — with  a 
bitten  underlip  twisting  and  struggling  like  a  red  live 
thing  to  be  free ;  and  a  drawn  grey  cheek— till  the  great 
round  tear-drops  gathered  in  her  eyes  and  fell  hotly  on 
her  knuckles  one  by  one. 

But  that  was  only  for  a  moment. 

Then  Pam  dashed  the  tears  aside  and  shook  her  glo- 
rious head  with  new-found  resolve.  Pam  would  be 
brave ;  and  strong ;  and  steadfast ;  and  still ;  and  modest ; 
and  nobly  feminine ;  and  true.  And  would  show  him  by 
her  actions  that  he  had  done  her  a  wrong  in  his  heart. 

Pam  was  still  engaged  upon  the  work  of  showing  him 
when  the  Spawer  took  up  his  quarters  at  Cliff  Wrang- 
ham. 


CHAPTER  X 

ON  the  morning  following  the  Spawer's  session  at 
Father  Mostyn's,  before  James  Maskill  had  yet 
flung-  himself  round  the  brewer's  corner,  his  Reverence 
threw  open  the  blistered  Vicarage  door  and  sallied  forth 
genially  to  the  Post  Office  in  a  pair  of  well-trodden  mo- 
rocco slippers,  screwing  up  his  lips  to  inaudible  cheery 
music  as  he  went,  and  holding  in  his  left  hand  a  round 
roll  of  grey  stuff  which,  judging  by  wristbands  of  a 
similar  texture  that  showed  beyond  the  crinkled  cassock 
sleeves,  appeared  to  be  a  reverend  flannel  shirt.  Jan  Wil- 
lim  was  chalking  their  price  on  a  pair  of  virgin  soles 
when  he  heard  the  insidious  slip-slap  of  heelless  leather 
take  the  cobbles  like  the  lipping  of  an  advancing  tide, 
and  he  put  his  head  hurriedly  round  the  little  clean 
kitchen  door  at  the  sound  of  it. 

"Noo,  'ere  's  'is  Rivrence,"  he  announced,  with  the 
loud  double-barrelled  whisper  intended  to  do  duty  as  a 
shout  on  the  one  side  and  be  inaudible  on  the  other, 
"...  an'  it  '11  be  Pam  'e  's  after.  .  .  .  Noo,  Pam  lass !" 

"Ha!  The  very  girl  I  wanted  to  see,"  his  Reverence 
told  her,  as  Pam  slipped  her  frank  face  deftly  behind  the 
counter  to  receive  him,  like  a  beautiful  honest  marguerite, 
fresh  plucked  and  button-holed,  with  a  friendly  upward 
"Yes-s-s?"  prolonged  through  her  ivory  petals,  pink- 
tipped,  and  a  peep  of  rosy  tongue.  "The  very  girl! 
How  's  Government  this  morning,  John?"  he  inquired 


124  THE  POST-GIRL 

obliquely  of  the  deferential  shadow  brooding  by  the  inner 
door,  where  the  sound  of  straining  shoe-leather  bespoke 
the  presence  of  somebody  striving  to  keep  silence  on  his 
toes. 

"She  's  very  well,  ah  think,  yer  Rivrence,  thank  ye," 
responded  the  postmaster,  stepping  forward  the  necessary 
six  inches  to  show  himself  respectfully  before  the  Vicar 
in  the  act  of  speaking,  and  retiring  when  his  words  were 
ended. 

"Busy,  is  she  ?"  asked  his  Reverence  affably,  commenc- 
ing to  unroll  the  grey  bundle  of  flannel  on  the  counter 
with  a  leisurely  ordering  of  his  hands— Pam  lending  as- 
sistant touches  here  and  there. 

"Ay,  she  's  busy,"  said  the  postmaster,  showing  again 
in  the  door-frame,  and  wiping  his  fingers  on  his  apron, 
lest  their  inactivity  might  seem  like  disrespectful  indo- 
lence before  the  Vicar.  "Bud  it  '11  be  slack  time  wi'  'er 
an'  all  before  long.  Theer  's  not  so  many  stamps  selt  i' 
'arvest  by  a  deal,  nor  so  many  letters  written.  Folks  is 
ower  throng  i'  field." 

"Ha!  No  doubt  about  it.  The  harvest  field  is  a  fine 
corrective  for  cacoethees  scribendi,"  said  his  Reverence, 
disposing  the  shirt  on  the  counter  lengthwise,  with  limp, 
outstretched  arms,  for  Pam's  inspection,  as  though  it 
were  some  subject  on  an  operating  table.  "Buttons  again, 
you  see,  Pam,"  he  told  her,  pointing  out  where  they 
lacked. 

"My  word,  I  see!"  said  Pam,  running  over  the  out- 
lines of  the  article  with  a  swift,  critical  eye.  "And  wrist- 
bands and  collarbands  as  well.  You  want  some  new 
shirts  badly.  You  've  only  four  now,  with  the  one 
you  've  got  on — and  that,"  she  said,  turning  up  his  cas- 


THE  POST-GIRL  125 

sock  sleeves  to  get  a  look  at  it,  "is  almost  past  mending. 
See  how  thin  it  is.  ...  And  will  you  have  pearl  buttons, 
then?"  asked  Pam,  composing  the  shirt  to  seemly  folds 
under  soft,  caressing  fingers,  and  following  every  move 
of  her  hands  with  a  fascinating  agreement  of  head, 
"...  or  plain  white  ?" 

"Ha!  Plain  white  ...  by  all  means,"  said  Father 
Mostyn.  "Large  plain  white  for  his  reverence  the  vicar 
— as  large  and  as  plain  and  as  white  as  we  can  get  'em, 
that  He  flat  where  they  fall,  and  don't  run  all  over  the 
floor  and  try  to  find  the  crack  in  the  skirting-board.  Pearl 
buttons  are  for  the  young  and  flexible  (incidentally  too, 
for  the  profane),  and  not  for  aged  parish  priests,  whose 
knees  are  stiffened  with  a  life  of  kneeling.  .  .  .  Shirts 
and  pearl  buttons  must  n't  let  me  forget,  though,"  he  ad- 
monished himself,  drawing  the  solitary,  backless  cane- 
bottomed  chair  under  him  from  below,  and  sitting  to  the 
counter  with  one  hand  drumming  on  its  oilcloth  and  the 
other  gripping  a  spindle,  "what  I  really  came  about." 

"No,"  said  Pam,  watching  his  lips. 

"We  had  a  visit  from  our  friend  of  the  Cliff  End  last 
night." 

Pam's  eyes  were  drawn  for  a  moment  to  sundry  faults 
in  the  folding  of  the  shirt,  and  her  fingers  busied  them- 
selves with  their  correction. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  looking  up  again.  "But  you  did  n't 
have  any  music?  .  .  .  Did  you?"  she  asked,  with  the 
sudden  eagerness  for  a  coveted  opportunity  gone  by. 

"All  in  good  time — all  in  good  time,  dear  child,"  Father 
Mostyn  exhorted  her  indulgently.  "Last  night  we  made 
music  with  our  mouths,  but  the  next  night  we  're  going 
to  make  a  little  with  our  fingers.  Bach !  Scarlatti !  Bee- 


126  THE  POST-GIRL 

thoven!  Mozart!  Schumann!  Palestrina!  .  .  .  And 
then  we  shall  have  to  have  you  with  us." 

"Me?"  asked  Pam,  with  swift,  desirous  incredulity. 

"You,"  said  Father  Mostyn. 

Pam  plunged  her  face  into  her  two  hands  straightway 
(which  was  a  characteristic  trick  of  hers  at  such  times), 
as  though  the  beauty  of  this  thing  were  too  great  to  be- 
hold. After  a  moment  she  let  her  fingers  slide  away  into 
her  lap  of  their  own  weight  and  threw  back  a  brave  head 
with  the  smile  of  tears  about  it,  and  the  little  double 
shake  that  remained  over  to  her  from  the  short  while  ago 
when  her  hair  had  fallen  in  sleek,  black  curtains  on  either 
side  of  her  cheeks  each  time  she  stooped. 

"Does  he  know  I  'm  to  be  there  ?"  she  inquired. 

"To  be  sure  he  does,  dear  child." 

"But  it  was  your  idea  ...  to  ask  me,"  said  Pam. 

"It  was  my  vicarage,"  said  Father  Mostyn. 

Pam  made  pot-hooks  with  her  fingers. 

"Yes  .  .  ."  she  said,  as  though  the  word  were  only  the 
beginning  to  a  puzzled  objection,  but  her  breath  went  out 
in  it  in  lingering,  and  she  let  it  stand  by  itself  as  an  as- 
sent. "What  did  he  say?" 

"When?" 

"When  you  told  him  ...  I  was  to  be  there  ?  Perhaps 
he  did  n't  say  anything?"— with  anxiety.  "Did  he?" 

"And  supposing  he  did  n't?" 

"Then  perhaps  it  would  mean  he  did  n't  want  me.  And 
perhaps  it  would  n't  ...  but  it  might." 

"Ha!  Might  it?  Let  's  make  our  mind  easy,  dear 
child.  He  said  lots  of  things." 

"About  me?" 

"Certainly.  It  was  you  we  were  discussing." 


THE  POST-GIRL  127 

There  was  only  one  question  possible  to  ask  after  this 
on  the  direct  line,  and  Pam  drew  up  short,  confronting  it 
with  a  sudden  air  of  virtue. 

"I  don't  want  to  know  what  they  were,"  she  said. 

"There  's  no  earthly  reason  why  you  should  n't,"  Fa- 
ther Mostyn  told  her  suavely,  "so  far  as  that  goes." 

"Is  n't  there?"  asked  Pam;  and  then  quickly:  ".  .  .  Of 
course,  I  did  n't  think  there  would  be.  Why  should 
there?" 

"Ha!  Pam,  Pam,  Pam!"  said  his  Reverence,  raising 
his  hand  from  the  counter,  and  wagging  a  monitory  loose 
forefinger  at  her.  "All  the  doctrine  of  Church  Catholic 
can't  drive  the  first  woman  out  of  you  quite,  I  fear.  Curi- 
osity in  that  little  breast  of  yours  is  a  blackbird  in  a  lin- 
net's cage,  and  may  break  away  through  the  bars." 

Pam  looked  up  from  her  pot-hooks  sideways  and 
laughed  the  soft,  musical  confession  of  guilt. 

"All  that  was  said  about  you  last  night,"  his  Reverence 
assured  her,  "had  to  do  with  your  music.  .  .  ." 

"But  you  never  told  him,"  said  Pam,  locking  her 
knuckles  with  a  sudden  alarm  against  the  impending  dis- 
closure, and  straining  them  backwards  over  her  knee. 

"To  be  sure  I  did." 

"Oh !"  said  Pam,  and  dipped  her  face  into  her  basined 
fingers  a  second  time.  ".  .  .  That  's  dreadful.  Now 
he  '11  come  to  church." 

Father  Mostyn  stroked  a  severe,  judicial  chin.  "Is  that 
so  dreadful?  ...  to  go  to  church?  You  would  n't  have 
him  go  to  chapel  ?" 

"No,  no,"  said  Pam.  "Not  if  he  did  n't  want.  But  he 
never  went  .  .  .  anywhere  before.  And  now  he  '11 
laugh." 


128  THE  POST-GIRL 

"In  church?  ...  I  think  not." 

"When  he  gets  outside." 

"Why  should  he  laugh  when  he  gets  outside?" 

"Because.  ...  Oh !"  Pam  twisted  her  fingers.  "Be- 
cause of  me." 

"And  why,  pray,  because  of  you?" 

"Oh  .  .  .  because.  .  .  .  Not  because  you  have  n't 
taught  me  properly,  because  you  have,  and  been  clever 
and  kind,  and  more  painstaking  than  I  deserved  .  .  . 
ever.  But  because  .  .  .  what  must  my  playing  sound 
like  to  him,  when  he  plays  so  beautifully?" 

"Pride,  dear  child,  pride!"  Father  Mostyn  cautioned 
her  with  uplifted  finger.  "Let  's  beware  of  our  pride. 
The  Ullbrig  pride  that  can't  bear  the  humiliation  of  being 
taught." 

"I  'm  sure  I  try,"  said  Pam  penitentially. 

"Let  's  try  harder,  then,"  said  his  Reverence,  with  affa- 
ble resolve.  "Never  let  's  cease  trying  to  try  harder. 
The  laughter  you  speak  of  is  most  assuredly  a  miasma 
rising  from  the  deadly  quagmires  of  your  own  pride.  If 
our  playing  merits  the  fate  of  being  laughed  at,  why 
should  we  wish  it  to  receive  any  better  fate,  or  fear  its 
receiving  its  just  deserts.  Is  n't  that  a  virulent  form  of 
Ullbrig  hypocrisy?" 

"I  did  n't  mean  it  to  be  hypocrisy,"  said  Pam  sadly. 
"And  I  did  n't  think  it  was  till  you  showed  me.  Only 
.  .  .  somehow  ...  I  can't  help  it.  I  seem  to  be  growing 
more  and  more  into  a  hypocrite  every  day." 

"Ha!"  said  Father  Mostyn,  welcoming  the  admission, 
".  .  .  so  long  as  we  recognise  the  sin,  and  the  nature  and 
the  degree  and  the  locality  of  it  ...  and  have  strength 
to  confess  it,  dear  child,  salvation  is  still  within  our  clasp. 


THE  POST-GIRL  129 

It  's  only  in  sinning  without  knowing  it  that  the  deadli- 
ness  lies.  And  that  's  what  the  Church  Catholic  is  to 
protect  us  from.  .  .  .  Are  you  listening,  John?" 

"Ah  catch  seummut  o'  what  's  bein'  said,  yer  Riv- 
rence,"  the  postmaster  acknowledged  cautiously,  mani- 
festing a  certain  diffidence  about  showing  himself  to  this 
appeal,  ".  .  .  bud  ah  'm  not  listenin'  if  it  's  owt  'at 
dizz  n't  consarn  me." 

"The  Catholic  Church,"  Father  Mostyn  instructed  him 
solemnly,  "concerns  all  men — even  shoemakers — and  you 
would  be  well  advised  to  catch  as  much  of  what  you  hear 
her  saying  as  you  can.  Truth  may  come  to  us  some  day 
by  keeping  our  ears  open  to  her,  but  be  sure  she  won't 
come  to  us  without." 

"Ah  expeck  she  weean't,"  said  a  depressed  voice  from 
the  shoemakery.  "Thank  ye." 

"You  're  welcome,  John.  And  now" — Father  Mostyn 
turned  to  Pam  in  lighter  vein — "enough  of  spiritual 
meats  for  our  soul's  digestion,  dear  child.  Far  from 
laughing  at  you,  as  your  little  momentary  lapse  from  dis- 
cipline permitted  you  to  imagine,  our  Cliff  End  friend 
was  most  genuinely  interested  in  your  musical  welfare; 
inquired  diligently  concerning  your  state  of  proficiency; 
whether — " 

"Oh!"  Pam  had  been  torturing  her  ten  fingers  over 
her  knee  while  the  list  proceeded.  "Did  n't  you 
just  tell  him  I  knew  nothing  at  all?"  she  begged  patheti- 
cally. 

"Patience,  dear  child,  patience!"  Father  Mostyn  ad- 
jured her,  with  episcopal  calm.  "I  did  better  than  that. 
I  told  him  the  truth.  Ha !  told  him  the  truth.  Told  him 
you  were  willing  at  heart  to  learn,  but  headstrong,  and 


i3o  THE  POST-GIRL 

apt  to  be  careless.  Explained  where  the  grave  short- 
comings lay." 

"...  About  the  thumbs  going  under  ?"  Pam  prompted 
anxiously. 

"Ha !  .  .  .  and  your  fatal  tendency  to  depart  from  the 
metronomic  time  as  adjudicated  by  the  old  masters. 
Have  no  fear,  dear  daughter.  I  told  him  all  your  musical 
offences  that  I  could  remember  at.  the  moment.  He 
knows  the  dreadful  worst,  and  has  most  kindly  promised 
to  lend  a  helping  hand  and  assist  us  to  make  better  of  it 
if  the  thing  can  be  done." 

Pam  gulped,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  Father  Mostyn,  as 
though  she  had  been  swallowing  one  of  Fussitter's  large- 
size  three-a-penny  humbugs, 

"Does  a  helping  hand  .  .  .  mean  lessons?"  she  asked, 
in  a  still,  small  voice,  after  the  humbug  had  settled  down. 

"Not  so  fast;  not  so  fast,"  Father  Mostyn  reproved 
her.  "I  feared  what  my  words  might  induce.  Let  's  be- 
ware of  the  fatal  trick  of  jumping  at  conclusions.  It 
does  not  appear  at  present  what  a  helping  hand,  in  its 
strictest  interpretation,  may  mean.  You  see  ...  we  've 
got  to  remember  .  .  .  our  friend  is  n't  like  the  common 
ruck  of  'em.  No  mere  bread-and-cheese  musician,  de- 
pendent on  the  keyboard  for  his  sustenance,  but  a  dilet- 
tante ...  a  professional  patron  of  the  muse,  so  to  speak, 
who  is  n't  solely  concerned  with  its  sordid  side  of 
pounds,  shillings,  and  pence.  I  told  him  he  'd  have  to  let 
us  feed  him  the  next  time  he  came  to  see  us.  Not  dine 
him  .  .  .  but  feed  him.  And  he  seemed  to  cotton  to  the 
idea.  So  now,  dear  child,  what  are  we  going  to  do  about 
it?" 

"Oh!"     Pam  pressed  a  hand  flat  to  each  cheek  and 


THE  POST-GIRL  131 

fastened  a  look  of  round-eyed,  incredulous  delight  on 
Father  Mostyn's  face.  "Is  it  to  be  a  party?" 

"Not  altogether  a  party."  Father  Mostyn  pursed  up 
his  lips  dubiously  over  the  word.  "Let  's  beware  of  con- 
fusions in  our  terms,  dear  girl.  Not  a  party.  Nothing 
set  or  fixed  or  formal.  Not  a  dinner.  No,  no ;  not  a  din- 
ner. A  feed.  That  's  what  it  's  to  be." 

"Yes,"  said  Pam,  sticking  close  to  the  suggestion  as 
though  she  were  afraid  of  losing  it,  and  nodding  her 
head  many  times  with  an  infinity  of  understanding.  "I 
know.  A  feed.  What  sort  of  a  feed?" 

Father  Mostyn's  judicial  eyebrow  shot  up  like  the 
empty  end  of  a  see-saw. 

"That  's  what  we  Ve  got  to  settle.  I  rather  fancied. 
.  .  .  You  see — the  weather  's  so  hot  ...  we  must  con- 
sider. My  idea  was  ...  I  thought,  perhaps  ...  we  'd 
have  something  rather  cooling.  Something,  say,  in  the 
nature  of  a  cold  spread.  .  .  .  But  anything  you  like,  dear 
child,"  he  allowed  her.  "Just  think  out  for  yourself — 
when  I  Ve  gone — the  very  best  you  can  do  for  us,  and- 
we  '11  subscribe  to  it  in  success  or  failure  when  the  time 
comes.  And  now,  let  's  settle  when  the  time  's  to  be. 
When  can  we  manage  it,  think  you  ?" 

"To-night?  .  .  .  were  you  thinking  of?"  said  Pam. 

"Ha!"  Father  Mostyn  wagged  his  hands  free  of  all 
part  in  the  proposal.  "I  was  thinking  of  nothing.  But 
to-night  's  a  little  too  precipitate,  dear  child.  To-morrow 
night,  then,  let  us  say,  and  L  '11  ride  up  to  the  Cliff  my- 
self some  time  this  morning,  and  take  the  invitation." 

So  it  was  arranged,  and  the  post  rattled  up  over  the 
cobbles,  and  his  Reverence  departed,  after  a  genial  word 
with  James  Maskill. 


132  THE  POST-GIRL 

"Ha!  Here  comes  the  joyful-hearted  James,"  he  said 
to  the  figure  of  the  postman,  that  showed  hot  and  angry 
through  the  doorway,  gripping  the  neck  of  his  red-sealed 
canvas  bag  as  though  it  were  a  doomed  Christmas  turkey, 
and  waiting  sullenly  sideways  for  his  Reverence  to  pass 
by.  "No  need  to  ask  how  the  joyful-hearted  James  is. 
Fit  and  smiling  as  ever.  Not  even  the  burden  of  other 
people's  letters  can  disturb  his  equanimity.  Splendid 
weather  for  you,  James.  Don't  stand;  don't  stand. 
Come  in,  and  let  's  see  what  you  've  got  inside  your 
lucky-bag  this  morning— anything  for  the  Cliff  End  at 
all?  Eh,  Pam?" 

Thereupon  James  brushed  past  the  reverend  cassock 
buttons  with  a  grunt  like  a  felled  ox,  that  might  have 
been  apology  or  anathema,  or  neither,  and  brought  down 
the  post-bag  on  the  counter  like  a  muffled  thud. 

"No,"  said  Pam,  when  she  'd  taken  it  from  him  with  a 
smiling  nod  of  recognition  and  thanks,  and  run  its  con- 
tents deftly  under  her  fingers.  "There  's  nothing  for  far- 
ther than  Stamway's  this  morning." 

"And  nothing  for  his  Reverence?" 

Pam  ran  over  the  letters  again 'before  his  Reverence's 
eyes,  to  show  him  that  she  was  n't  merely  making  use  of 
the  word  "No"  to  save  her  a  little  trouble,  and  shook  her 
head. 

"Ha!  Capital!  capital!"  said  his  Reverence,  preparing 
to  go.  "At  least,  it  means  there  's  nobody  petitioning  for 
new  drain-pipes  or  a  cow-shed  roof  by  this  post." 

"Ay,"  pronounced  the  postman  darkly  after  him, 
watching  the  retreating  shoulders  with  an  explosive  face 
like  a  fog-signal.  "Yon  sod  ought  to  'ave  'is  dommed 
neck  screwed  round  an'  all." 


THE  POST-GIRL  133 

"Sh!  James,  James,  James!"  cried  Pam,  biting  a  lip 
of  grieved  reproof  at  him  across  the  counter,  and  seeking 
to  melt  his  hardness  with  a  sorrowing  eye.  "How  can 
you  bear  to  say  such  wicked  things  ?" 

"Ah  sewd  run  after  'im  an'  tell  'im  o'  me,  if  ah  was 
you,"  James  taunted  her,  free  of  any  anxiety  that  the 
challenge  might  be  accepted.  "  'E  weean't  'a  gotten  so  far." 

"You  know  very  well  I  would  n't  do  it,"  said  Pam. 

"Ah  know  nowt  about  what  ye  'd  do,"  James  denied 
obstinately,  shaking  admission  away  from  him  like  rain- 
drops gathered  on  the  brim  of  his  cap-shade.  "Nor  ah 
don't  care." 

"You  know  very  well  I  would  n't  do  that,  anyhow," 
said  Pam,  with  a  trembling  lip  for  the  injustice.  "And 
it  's  wrong  of  you  to  say  I  would." 

"Ah  know  ah  'm  a  bad  'un,"  said  James.  "Let  's  'a  my 
letters  an'  away." 

"You  're  not  a  bad  one,"  Pam  protested,  with  a  more 
trembling  lip  than  ever,  "but  you  try  to  make  people  think 
you  are.  And  some  of  them  believe  you." 

"They  can  think  what  they  like.  Folks  is  allus  ready 
to  believe  owt  bad  about  a  man,"  said  the  postman  bit- 
terly, "wi'oot  'im  tryin'.  Ah  sewd  'ave  seummut  to  do  to 
mek  'em  think  t'  other  road,  ah  '11  a-wander,  ne'er  mind 
whether  ah  tried  or  no.  Nobody  's  gotten  a  good  wod  for 
me." 

"I  've  got  a  good  word  for  you,"  said  Pam. 

There  was  silence  over  the  postman's  mouth  for  a 
moment,  and  in  that  moment  his  evil  genius  prevailed. 

"Ye  can  keep  it,  then,"  he  said  ungraciously,  swinging 
on  his  heel.  "Ah  nivver  asked  ye  for  it." 

And  the  silence  was  not  broken  again  after  that.    Pam 


i34  THE  POST-GIRL 

went  on  sorting  her  letters  steadily,  but  every  now  and 
then  she  turned  her  head  to  one  side  of  the  counter,  and 
for  each  stamp  on  the  envelope  there  were  a  couple— big, 
blurred,  swollen,  and  rain-sodden,  with  a  featureless  re- 
semblance to  James  Maskill  about  them— that  danced  be- 
fore her  eyes. 

Only,  later  in  the  day,  when  there  was  no  postmaster 
to  prejudice  matters  with  his  presence,  Pam  heard  James 
Maskill  whistling  the  Doxology  outside  the  door  with 
his  heel  to  the  brickwork,  and  she  slipped  round  and 
took  him  prisoner  by  his  coat  lapels. 

"James  .  .  ."  she  said  softly,  and  the  Doxology 
stopped  on  the  sudden,  as  dead  as  the  March  in  Saul. 
"You  did  n't  ...  mean  it,  did  you?" 

The  postman  dropped  his  eyelids  to  their  thinnest 
width  of  obstinacy,  and  said  nothing.  Pam  waited,  look- 
ing persuasively  at  his  great  freckles  (so  unlike  her 
own),  and  still  holding  him  up  against  the  brickwork,  as 
though  he  were  Barclay,  in  need  of  it  on  Saturday  night. 

"You  did  n't  really  .  .  .  think  I  would  do  such  a 
thing.  .  .  .  Did  you  now,  James?"  she  asked  him,  after 
a  while,  trying  to  gain  entrance  to  his  heart  by  a  soft  var- 
iation on  the  original  theme. 

"There  's  some  on  'em  would,"  James  muttered  evas- 
ively through  his  lips,  when  it  seemed  that  Pam  meant 
going  on  looking  at  him  for  ever.  ".  .  .  Ay,  in  a  minute 
they  would." 

"But  not  me,"  Pam  pleaded. 

"Ah  did  n't  say  you,"  James  answered,  after  another 
pause.  "Ah  said  ah  did  n't  know." 

"But  you  do  know,  don't  you  ?"  Pam  urged  him.  "You 
know  I  would  n't;  don't  you,  James?" 


THE  POST-GIRL  135 

The  postman  changed  embarrassed  heels  against  the 
brickwork. 

"  'Appen  ah  do,"  he  said,  with  his  eyes  closing. 

"Say  you  do,"  Pam  begged.  "Without  any  'happen,' 
James." 

There  was  an  awful  period  of  conflict  once  more,  in 
which  James  showed  a  disposition  to  clamp  both  heels 
against  the  brickwork  together,  but  this  second  time  his 
good  genius  conquered. 

".  .  .  Do,"  he  said,  with  his  eyes  quite  shut;  and  Pam 
let  go  the  lapels. 

"I  knew  you  did,"  she  said,  but  without  any  sting  of 
exultation  about  the  words — only  pride  for  the  man's 
own  victory — and  went  back  to  her  work  again  (which 
had  reference  to  hard-boiled  eggs  and  chickens)  with  a 
brightened  faith  in  the  latent  goodness  of  humanity. 

And  when  James  was  standing  on  the  cobbles  before 
the  Post  Office  that  night,  loosing  the  knot  in  his  reins 
prior  to  departure,  Pam  slipped  out  with  a  neat  little  par- 
cel done  up  in  butter  paper,  and  put  it  into  his  hands. 

"Ay,  bud  ye  're  ower  late,"  said  the  postman  tersely, 
with  no  signs  of  the  recent  softening  about  him,  and 
sought  to  press  it  back  upon  her.  "Bag  's  made  up." 

"But  it  is  n't  for  the  bag,"  said  Pam,  resisting  the 
transfer.  "It  's  for  you,  James." 

"What  's  it  for  me  for?"  demanded  the  postman,  with 
the  old  voice  of  ire. 

"To  eat,"  said  Pam.  "It  's  a  chicken  pasty  I  made  on 
purpose  for  you,  with  a  savory  egg  and  a  sponge  sand- 
wich. The  egg  's  in  two  halves  with  the  shell  off,  and 
it 's  quite  hard.  You  can  eat  it  out  of  your  ringers  if  you 
like.  I  thought  they  'd  be  nice  for  your  tea." 


136  THE  POST-GIRL 

The  postman  exchanged  the  parcel  from  hand  to  hand 
for  a  while,  as  though  he  were  weighing  it,  slipped  it 
after  deliberation  under  the  seat,  gathered  the  reins, 
gripped  the  footboard  and  splasher,  pulled  them  down  to 
meet  him,  treading  heavily  on  the  step,  till  the  whole  cart 
appeared  to  be  standing  on  its  side,  and  rocked  up  into 
place  with  a  send-off  that  looked  like  shooting  him  over 
the  saddler's  chimney.  For  James  Maskill  to  thank  any- 
body for  anything  was  an  act  of  weakness  so  foreign  to 
his  nature  that  there  were  few  in  all  the  district  who 
could  accuse  him  of  it ;  and  from  the  present  signs  Pam 
did  not  gather  she  was  to  be  among  the  number. 

"Good-by,  James,"  she  said  wistfully,  stepping  back 
from  the  wheel  as  he  sat  down— for  James  Maskill's 
starts  were  sudden  and  fearful  events,  not  unattended 
with  danger  to  the  onlooker,  "...  and  I  hope  you  '11  like 
them." 

"Kt,  Kt!"  was  all  James  vouchsafed  (and  that  not  to 
Pam)  out  of  a  threatening  corner  of  his  mouth;  but  as 
the  bay  mare  leaned  forward  to  the  traces,  and  Pam  gave 
him  up  utterly  for  lost,  he  turned  a  quick,  full  face  upon 
her.  "Good-neet  .  .  .  an'  thank  ye,"  he  said.  And  in  a 
smothered  voice  that  seemed  to  issue  from  under  the 
seat,  turning  back  again :  "Ah  '11  try  my  best." 

Then  he  set  his  teeth  and  brought  the  whip  down  hiss- 
ing venomously,  as  though  desirous  to  get  clear  of  the 
sound  of  his  own  words  and  weakness.  The  bay  mare 
sprang  up  into  the  sky  like  a  winged  Pegasus,  taking 
James  Maskill  and  the  trap  along  with  her,  and  before 
Pam's  eye  could  catch  on  to  them  again,  they  were  gone 
in  a  cloud  round  the  brewer's  corner. 


CHAPTER  XI 

r  I AHEN  for  two  days  there  were  six  very  busy  girls  in 
Jl  Ullbrig — busier,  indeed,  than  any  other  six  girls  in 
the  world,  I  think,  and  their  name  was  Pam.  They 
cooked  things  in  the  little  clean  kitchen  that  gave  forth  a 
savor  like  all  the  flesh-pots  of  Egypt;  things  that  turned 
Jan  Willim's  nostrils  sideways  in  his  head  through  trying 
to  smell  them  from  the  shoemakery  at  work  with  his  head 
down,  and  elicited  a  constant  sound  of  snuffling  outside 
the  Post  Office  as  of  pigs  that  prize  their  snouts  under 
the  stye  door  at  feed  time.  They  went  abroad  with  bas- 
kets, whose  white  napkins  Ullbrig's  fingers  itched  to  lift, 
and  pushed  open  the  blistered  Vicarage  door  without 
knocking,  and  passed  in.  They  were  seen  to  pay  calls  at 
Mrs.  Fussitter's,  and  then  Ullbrig  sent  bonnetless  emis- 
saries after  them,  with  their  bare  arms  wrapped  up  in 
harden  aprons,  to  inquire: 

"Ye  've  'ad  Pam  wi'  ye  just  noo,  en't  ye  ?  ...  Ay,  ah 
thought  y'  *ad.  Ah  thought  ah  seed  'er.  .  .  Ah  's  think 
she  'd  nowt  to  say  for  'ersen,  'ad  she  ?" 

You  may  judge,  then,  if  Pam  was  busy. 

But  in  the  end  the  things  that  had  to  be  done  were 
done,  and  the  appointed  hour  came  to  pass,  and  Pam 
slipped  through  the  Vicarage  door  with  the  final  basket, 
and  did  not  emerge  again,  and  the  shutters  were  drawn 
in  both  windows. 


137 


138  THE  POST-GIRL 

("Ay  .  .  .  see  ye  ...  look  there!  ...  If  ah  did  n't 
think  they  would,"  said  Mrs.  Fussitter,  when  all  hope  had 
gone  with  the  second.  "They  weean't  let  onnybody  tek  a 
bit  o'  interest  i'  them,  ah-sure.  Ah  mud  just  as  well  'a 
gotten  on  wi'  my  work  nor  waste  time  ower  them  'at 
dizz  n't  thank  ye.") 

And  lastly,  the  Spawer  rode  down  from  Dixon's  when 
the  dusk  was  falling,  to  enjoy  the  ripe  fruits  of  all  this 
preparation.  They  heard  the  sound  of  his  bell,  percolat- 
ing the  stillness  from  Hesketh's  corner  like  a  drop  of  cool 
musical  rain,  and  Pam  said:  "Here  he  is,"  in  a  whisper, 
almost  awestruck,  and  bit  her  nails  between  her  white 
teeth  with  a  sudden  enlargement  of  eye,  as  though  they  'd 
been  lying  in  wait  for  a  burglar  all  this  time,  and  the 
burglar  had  come. 

And  for  a  moment  her  heart  failed  her.  She  did  n't 
know  what  to  do.  For  how  was  she  there?  Why  was 
she  there  ?  By  what  right  was  she  there  ?  What  folly  or 
blind  presumption  had  led  her  to  be  there?  Why  had 
she  ever  consented  to  be  there? 

Suppose  it  was  all  a  mistake,  after  all,  and  he  did  n't 
really  expect  her.  What  would  happen  then?  What 
should  she  do  if  his  face  dropped  discernibly  when  she 
showed  herself,  and  he  became  cold? 

Oh,  he  would  be  terrible  cold. 

And  what  would  he  be  thinking  of  if  his  thoughts 
made  him  look  like  that?  Would  he  be  thinking  of  the 
same  things  as  the  schoolmaster  ? 

Oh,  no,  no,  no!    Would  he? 

Would  he  turn  his  back  upon  her,  and  talk  over  her  to 
Father  Mostyn  as  though  she  were  a  mere  wooden  pali- 
sade? What  if  she  was  a  lady,  as  Father  Mostyn  found 


THE  POST-GIRL  139 

necessary  to  remind  her  at  times  when  she  did  n't  act  like 
one?  How  was  he  to  know  that? 

And  even  if  he  did  know  it,  what  did  it  matter?  If 
the  thing  itself  was  wrong  to  start  with,  how  was  it  bet- 
tered because  a  lady  did  it? 

Besides  .  .  .  she  was  n't  a  lady. 

She  knew  very  well  she  was  n't.  She  was  just  the 
post-girl.  And  he  'd  been  most  good  to  her  in  the  past; 
had  shaken  hands  with  her  and  talked  French  for  her 
(that  she  was  trying  hard  to  learn,  with  Father  Mostyn's 
assistance,  out  of  an  eighteenth  century  grammar  that  his 
father's  father  had  used),  and  promised  to  play  to  her 
whenever  she  wanted. 

Oh,  yes  .  .  .  she  knew ;  and  was  very  grateful.  But 
that  was  different  now.  Then  (and  he  knew  it,  too)  she 
had  been  trying  to  get  out  of  his  way.  Now  she  was 
thrusting  herself  into  it.  She  was  taking  advantage  of 
his  own  kindness  to  claim  friendship  and  equality  out  of 
it,  like  the  impudent  beggars  that  make  your  one  favor 
the  plea  for  asking  a  dozen.  Friendliness  was  one  thing ; 
friendship  was  another  0 

Oh,  what  should  she  do?  and  how  should  she  meet 
him? 

It  was  a  terrible  moment. 

And  then  Pam  suddenly  bethought  herself,  and  dipped 
her  face  swiftly  into  the  font  of  her  two  joined  hands — 
as  though  for  baptism  by  resolution — and  prayed. 

It  was  very  silly  of  her,  of  course — though,  for  the 
matter  of  that,  lots  of  people  do  the  same  thing  when 
they  are  in  trouble — particularly  girls ;  and  Pam  was  only 
a  girl,  we  are  to  remember. 

Perhaps  she  did  n't  exactly  pray  so  much  as  think 


I4o  THE  POST- GIRL 

aloud  in  her  thoughts,  so  that  God  might  hear  His  name 
and  listen  to  her  if  He  would.  Very  quickly  and  earn- 
estly, and  without  any  stops  at  all,  as  though  the  words 
had  been  in  her  great  heart  to  start  with,  and  she  'd  just 
turned  it  upside  down.  And  no  sooner  had  they  turned 
out  than  she  heard  the  Spawer's  two  feet  strike  the 
ground  outside  like  a  dotted  crochet  and  a  quaver  in  a 
duple  bar  as  he  jumped  from  his  bicycle,  and  heard  Fa- 
ther Mostyn  throw  open  the  front  door  and  say  "Ha!" 
and  the  Spawer  give  him  back  sunny  greeting  in  his  fa- 
miliar voice  of  smiles  (that  she  seemed  to  know  almost  as 
well  as  her  own— if  not  better),  and  immediately  her  fear 
left  her  as  though  it  had  never  been;  and  she  knew  he 
was  expecting  her  and  would  be  glad  to  see  her,  and  had 
come  more  on  her  account  than  on  his  own,  and  would 
put  out  his  hand  as  soon  as  ever  he  saw  her,  and  smile 
friendship;  and  her  appetite  for  this  joyous  double 
feast  returned. 

Then  she  threw  up  her  head  and  shook  it,  and  slipped 
out  into  the  hall  (she  'd  been  standing  out  of  sight  in  the 
door-frame  during  her  momentary  disquietude),  with  her 
lips  a  little  apart  as  though  for  the  quickened  breathing 
of  eagerness  that  has  been  a-running,  and  her  white  teeth 
glistening  between  like  the  pure  milk  of  human  kindness, 
and  her  cheeks  aflush  with  the  transparent  golden-pink 
of  a  ripening  peach,  and  her  head  thrown  back,  and  her 
chin  tilted  forward,  and  her  two  eyes  gazing  forth — each 
under  an  ineffable  half-width  of  lid;  and  nobody  a  penny 
wiser  about  the  prayer. 

"Ha!  Come  in;  come  in,"  Father  Mostyn  was  say- 
ing. "Take  stock  of  our  lamp.  Ha !  the  glory  makes  you 
blink.  That  's  better  than  the  reprehensible  Ullbrig  habit 


THE  POST- GIRL  141 

of  carrying  lighted  candles  with  us  to  see  who  's  at  the 
front  door,  and  setting  our  guests  on  fire  while  we  shake 
hands;  or  inviting  'em  into  darkness  and  bidding  'em 
stand  still  and  break  nothing  until  we  've  got  the  shutters 
up  and  can  strike  a  match.  Tell  Archdeaconess  Dixon 
when  you  get  back  that  his  reverence  has  a  twenty- four 
candle-power  lamp  lavishing  its  glory  in  the  hall — just 
for  shaking  hands  and  hanging  your  hat  up  by — it  '11  do 
her  good  to  know !"  The  Spawer,  who  had  already  been 
passing  his  recognitions  to  Pam  over  Father  Mostyn's 
shoulder,  leaned  across  the  bicycle  and  shook  hands  with 
her  to  her  heart's  content  in  his  own  happy  fashion— a 
fashion  that  had  nothing  of  offensive  familiarity  about  it, 
nor  any  chill  of  reserve,  but  was  as  sunny  as  you  please 
and  honestly  affectionate.  Had  he  pulled  her  ear  or  pat- 
ted her  cheek  or  kissed  her,  it  would  have  seemed  to 
come  quite  naturally  to  the  occasion  under  the  circum- 
stances, without  any  suggestion  of  impropriety.  But 
he  did  n't  do  any  of  these  things— nor  did  he  call  her 
by  any  name — which  Pam  noticed.  He  simply  shook 
the  little  brown  handful  of  fingers  that  had  been  so 
busy  on  his  behalf  these  two  days,  and  smiled  upon 
her. 

"Pam,  dear  child,"  his  Reverence  was  saying,  "how  's 
the  table  getting  on  ?  Ready  to  sit  down  to,  is  she  ?" 

Then  he  turned  to  the  Spawer. 

"You  've  brought  your  appetite  with  you,  Wynne  ?"  he 
charged  him,  with  solicitous  interrogation. 

"All  there  is  of  it,"  the  Spawer  affirmed  pleasantly. 
"They  advised  me  to  up  at  the  Cliff  (if  it  's  not  betray- 
ing confidences)."  A  rendering  of  the  vernacular  less 
literal,  perhaps  than  elegant.  "Noo,  ye  '11  get  some 


142  THE  POST-GIRL 

marma-lade !"  had  been  Miss  Bates'  reflection  on  the  sub- 
ject. "...  So  I  've  been  keeping  it  up  to  concert  pitch 
all  day." 

"Come  along,  then,"  said  Father  Mostyn.  "Let  's  all 
go  and  take  the  table  as  we  find  it.  No  use  waiting  for 
formality's  sake.  We  '11  manage  to  get  a  feed  off  it 
somehow." 

And  spreading  out  a  benedictory  semicircle  of  arm, 
whose  left  extremity  was  about  Pam  and  whose  right 
fell  paternally  on  the  Spawer's  shoulder,  he  gathered 
them  both  before  him  like  a  hen  coaxing  her  chickens, 
and  so  urged  them  invitingly  to  the  feast. 

AH  !  but  that  was  a  feed  to  remember.  The  glorious, 
never-to-be-forgotten  first  of  many  of  its  kind.  The 
same  old  room  it  was  in  which  the  Spawer  had  sat  with 
Father  Mostyn  two  nights  ago,  but  you  could  never  have 
known  it  without  being  told.  There  was  no  longer  any 
need  to  walk  like  a  prisoner  in  shackles,  sliding  one  foot 
past  the  other  for  fear  of  treading  on  crockery,  or  bal- 
ancing outstretched  arms  as  you  went  against  the  dizzy 
inclination  to  sit  down.  All  the  things  by  the  side  of  the 
wall  and  the  skirting-board  (including  the  cobwebs) 
were  either  gone  or  unrecognisably  reduced;  cunningly 
compressed  into  semblances  of  Chesterfields  and  otto- 
mans and  settees.  And  all  about  the  room  were  traces 
of  Pam's  taste  and  explorative  industry;  everything  that 
had  a  good  side  to  show  showed  it,  and  even  those  that 
had  n't  had  been  coaxed  by  Pam's  alluring  fingers  into 
looking  as  though  they  had. 

You  may  guess  if  the  Spawer  tried  politely  to  make  be- 
lieve he  did  n't  notice  any  change  in  the  room. 


THE  POST- GIRL  143 

But  the  crowning  glory  of  the  place  and  of  all  Pam's 
achievements— it  was  the  table.  Four  candles  lighted  it 
and  a  brass  lamp,  and  they  were  every  one  lighted  to  start 
with.  There  was  a  chicken-pie  in  a  Mother  Hubbard  frill, 
with  its  crust  as  brown  as  a  hazel-nut,  and  just  nicely  large 
enough  to  feed  half  a  dozen,  which  is  a  capital  size  for 
three;  and  a  noble  sirloin  of  beef,  fringed  with  a  hoary 
lock  of  horse-radish,  and  arching  its  back  in  lonely  maj- 
esty on  an  oval  arena  of  Spode;  and  there  was  a  salad, 
heaped  up  high  under  the  white  and  yellow  chequer  of 
sliced  eggs,  and  a  rosy  tomato  comb,  in  a  glorious  old 
oaken  bowl  as  big  as  a  kettle-drum,  china-lined,  bound 
with  three  broad  hoops  of  silver  and  standing  on  three 
massive  silver  claws ;  and  there  were  some  savory  eggs, 
deliciously  embowered  in  their  greenery  of  mustard  and 
cress,  and  a  tinned  tongue,  tissue-papered  in  white  and 
red,  and  garnished  with  stars  and  discs  and  crescents  as 
though  it  had  never  known  what  it  was  to  sleep  in  dark- 
ness in  an  air-tight  tin  under  Fussitter's  counter;  and 
some  beetroot,  brimming  in  a  blood-red  lake  of  vinegar; 
and  whipped  creams,  and  a  trifle  pudding,  all  set  out  on 
snowy  white  damask  amid  an  arctic  glitter  of  glass  and 
silver  and  cutlery.  Except  the  cheese,  which  was  a 
Camembert,  and  went  by  itself  on  the  grained  side-cup- 
board, where  all  the  tumblers  and  wine-glasses  had  been 
congregated  before. 

And  they  sat  down  to  table. 

Father  Mostyn  took  his  place  at  the  head,  in  the  eccles- 
iastical high-backed  arm-chair  of  oak,  facing  the  beef 
and  the  window,  with  the  big  buck-horn  ha f ted  carving- 
knife  to  his  right  hand  and  the  carving  fork  to  his  left 
for  insignia  of  office,  each  of  them  rearing  its  nose  over  a 


144  THE  POST-GIRL 

monstrous  cut-glass  rest,  shaped  like  a  four-pound  dumb- 
bell. Pam  sat  on  his  left.  And  the  Spawer  sat  exactly 
in  front  of  Pam  on  the  other  side  of  the  table ;  whenever 
they  raised  their  eyes  they  were  looking  at  each  other. 
While  they  were  drawing  their  serviettes  across  their 
knees,  Father  Mostyn  keeled  abstractedly  over  the  arm 
of  his  chair  towards  Pamela  with  his  eyelids  curiously 
lowered,  as  though  he  were  trying  to  catch  sight  of  a  fly 
on  his  nose,  and  named  her  in  a  spirit  of  gentle  musing : 

".  .  .  Pam  .  .  .  dear  child?" 

Then  Pam  threw  up  her  chin  fairly  and  squarely  and 
fearlessly,  after  the  manner  of  one  who  had  nothing  to 
be  ashamed  of,  looking  into  the  Spawer's  eyes  without 
flinching,  first  of  all,  and  thence  to  the  very  gates  of 
Heaven  over  his  shoulder  and  crossed  herself,  and  lifted 
her  clear,  bell-like  voice  in  pronouncement,  and  said : 

"In  the  name  of  the  Father,  and  of  the  Son,  and  of 
the  Holy  Ghost." 

Whereupon  Father  Mostyn  crossed  himself  too— with 
easy  familiarity,  as  though  he  were  sprinkling  surplus 
snuff  off  his  fingers ;  being  a  priest,  and  in  the  profession, 
so  to  speak— his  neck  stretched  out  the  while  like  that  of 
a  Christmas  Eve  turkey,  and  his  nose  thrown  up  raptly 
over  the  beef ;  after  which  he  let  his  serviette  slip  through 
his  knees,  and  took  hold  of  both  arms  of  his  chair,  and 
flung  himself  recklessly  out  over  them  at  right  angles, 
first  to  one  side  of  the  table  and  then  to  the  other,  in 
bland  survey,  like  Punch  delivering  his  immortal  gallows 
oration,  and  said: 

"Pam,  dear  child.  .  .  .  What  are  you  giving  us?"  as 
though  Pam  had  not  reiterated  every  dish  to  him  half  a 
dozen  times  that  very  night. 


THE  POST-GIRL  145 

".  .  .  There  are  the  herrings,"  she  suggested,  assuring 
herself  by  a  sight  of  them,  with  a  hopeful  slant  of  inquiry 
for  his  Reverence's  approval. 

"Ha !"  Father  Mostyn  cast  up  recognisant  eyes  to 
Heaven  as  though  he  had  not  understood  this  signal  act 
of  mercy  to  form  one  of  the  items  of  Pam's  grace,  and 
must  needs  now  add  a  special  acknowledgment.  "Beau- 
tiful !  beautiful !  Pass  them  along,  dear  child.  A  ple- 
beian fish  at  three  a  penny,  but  one  of  many  virtues, 
whose  sole  faults  lie  in  its  price  and  name.  Fortunately, 
those  are  faults  not  likely  to  affect  the  epigastrium. 
Wynne,  my  boy."  He  received  the  dish  from  Pam's  fin- 
gers and  transferred  it  magnificently  over  the  roast  beef 
to  the  Spawer's  side  of  the  table;  a  gesture  that  made 
rare  caviare  of  it  at  once,  ".  .  .  let  me  persuade  you. 
Herring  olives  prepared  according  to  the  recipe  of  my 
late  maternal  uncle,  Rear-Admiral  Sir  Alexander  Corne- 
lius. .  .  ." 

And  so  they  entered  upon  it,  with  little  thin,  crustless 
sandwiches  of  brown  bread  and  butter  (Pam's  making) 
to  accompany  the  olives,  and  the  Spawer  went  twice 
without  shame, — just  as  Pam  had  arranged  he  should, 
—and  it  acted  beautifully.  You  would  never  have 
known  she  'd  risen  from  the  table  if  you  had  n't  been 
watching  to  see  what  became  of  them.  And  after  that 
they  turned  their  eyes  towards  the  beef  with  one  accord, 
and  Father  Mostyn  uttered  a  dread  "Ha!"  and  seized  it 
between  knife  and  fork  like  an  executioner,  and  whipped 
it  over  and  stuck  the  fork  critically  into  the  undercut, 
holding  his  nose  very  high,  and  knitted  at  the  brows,  and 
looking  terribly  down  the  sides  of  it  through  his  lashes, 

and  drew  the  knife  (another  awful  moment  for  Pam) 
10 


146  THE  POST-GIRL 

and  melted  in  a  rapturous  smile  as  the  blade  sank  easily 
out  of  sight,  and  said : 

"Beautiful !  beautiful !  .  .  .  Cuts  like  a  bar  of  butter, 
dear  child." 

In  such  wise  they  embarked  upon  the  beef  stage,  and 
laid  siege  to  Pam's  succulent  salad,  with  its  tender,  juicy 
greens  and  its  mellifluous  cream  sauce.  Then  the  pie 
passed  in  turn,  nobly  supported  by  the  savory  eggs,  and 
similarly  succeeded  all  the  other  items  of  the  feed— (a 
glorious  procession)— the  stewed  plums,  the  custard,  the 
trifle  pudding,  the  port-wine  jellies,  the  whipped  creams, 
and  the  cheese,  with  the  wherewithal  to  wash  them  down 
and  cleanse  the  palate  for  its  discriminating  duties— St. 
Julia  winking  rosily  in  the  tinted  claret  glasses  by  the 
sides  of  Father  Mostyn  and  the  Spawer;  simple  lemon- 
ade in  a  tumbler  for  Pam  to  put  her  lips  to. 

And  all  the  while  they  talked.  At  least,  the  Spawer  and 
Father  Mostyn  did.  Pam  said  less  with  her  lips,  but  her 
eyes  were  always  present  in  the  heart  of  the  conversation 
— so  frankly  and  sweetly  and  freely  communicative,  and 
with  such  beautiful  brows  of  sympathetic  understanding 
playing  above  them  that  one  never  felt  any  need  of  the 
spoken  word.  Indeed,  one  did  n't  even  notice  it  was  n't 
there.  That  was  because  she  possessed  the  unconscious 
subtle  faculty  of  extending  her  words  through  manner ; 
of  perfuming  them,  as  it  were,  with  her  own  .sweet,  in- 
effable identity,  so  that  what  had  been  a  mere  brief- 
spoken  monosyllable,  unmemorable  of  itself,  became 
through  her  a  complete  sentence  in  physical  expression, 
memorable  for  some  beautiful  phrase  of  neck  or  lips, 
or  brows,  or  all  of  them  together,  perhaps,  in  one  melo- 
dious gesture. 


THE  POST- GIRL  147 

And  after  they  'd  saturated  themselves  through  and 
through  with  the  talk  of  things  musical  till  the  girl's  eyes 
were  wonder-worlds,  swimming  gloriously  aloft  amid 
whole  systems  of  consonant  stars,  and  the  priest  was 
a-hum  in  every  fibre  of  him  with  fragmentary  bars  and 
snatches  of  quotation  under  the  gathering  force  of  musi- 
cal remembrance,  like  a  kettle  coming  to  the  boil.  After 
all  this  they  passed  in  procession  over  the  echoing  flag- 
stones into  the  far  room,  where  was  the  little  sprightly 
old-fashioned  spinster  of  a  Knoll  piano,  exhaling  still  a 
faint  pungency  of  ammonia  from  its  recent  ablutions, 
with  new  candles  in  its  sconces  and  an  open  copy  of  Ros- 
sini's Stabat  Mater  laid  suggestively  on  its  desk,  and  all 
its  yellow  ivories  exposed  in  a  four-octave  smile  of  se- 
duction. 

And  here  Pam  brought  those  familiar  etceteras  of  hos- 
pitality with  which  the  Spawer  had  already  made  ac- 
quaintance; and  filled  the  pipe  as  unconcernedly  and  as 
skilfully  as  though  she  were  a  seasoned  smoker;  and 
sliced  the  three  rounds  of  lemon  for  his  Reverence's 
glass. 

And  they  made  music — glorious  music — on  the  little 
short-compassed  upright.  They  had  the  concerto,  of 
course — what  was  written  of  it — which  Pam,  nursing  in- 
tent clasped  hands  in  her  lap,  with  her  head  erect  and  her 
red  lips  folded  and  her  eyes  aglow,  adjudged  more  beau- 
tiful the  more  she  heard  it.  Oh,  what  a  glorious  thing  it 
was  to  be  a  composer,  and  have  one's  head  filled  with 
beautiful  music  in  place  of  other  people's  ordinary  hum- 
drum ideas!  And  Father  Mostyn  passed  a  rhapsodical 
hand  over  his  shining  scalp  and  said:  "Ha!  .  .  .  makes 
one  long  for  a  few  hairs  to  stand  on  end  in  tribute  to  it. 


148  THE  POST-GIRL 

Such  music  as  that  seems  somehow  to  be  wasted  on  a 
bald  head." 

And  they  had  the  A-flat  prelude  again,  that  sealed 
Pam's  eyes  with  the  great  round  tears  of  remembrance. 
And  the  Black  Study  they  had ;  and  some  of  Bach's  En- 
glische  Suiten;  and  bits  of  Beethoven,  the  Waldstein ; 
and  the  1  1  1 ;  and  part  of  the  "Emperor" ;  and  snatches  of 
Brahms— all  just  as  they  came  into  the  Spawer's  head, 
with  little  illuminative  discourses  to  accompany  them — a 
sort  of  running  verbal  analytic  programme,  as  it  were. 
And  Father  Mostyn  gave  them  reminiscences  of  Mario 
and  Grisi  and  Braham  and  the  great  Lablache,  and  sang 
"I  am  no  better  than  my  Fathers,"  from  Elijah. 

Not  a  bit  better,  really — if  indeed  as  good. 

And  the  Spawer  furnished  humorous  illustrations  of 
all  the  great  players.  De  Pachmann,  with  the  high,  up- 
lifted finger  and  exquisite  smile;  and  the  statuesque 
Paderewski,  sitting  stonily  at  the  piano ;  and  the  oblivious 
Rubinstein;  and  the  imperious  Liszt;  and  the  pedagogic 
Von  Biilow ;  all  of  them  as  funny  as  could  be,  with  real 
musicianly  insight  at  the  back  of  them;  most  felicitous 
examples  of  instructive  comparative  criticism. 

And  Pam  had  her  first  lesson  this  night,  and  was  quite 
ready  to  begin  the  second  when  that  was  over ;  and  there 
seemed  not  more  happiness  in  Heaven. 


CHAPTER  XII 

IT  was  midnight  when  Pam  breathed  guarded  good-by 
over  her  shoulder  to  Father  Mostyn  and  the  Spawer 
in  the  roadway,  and  let  herself  noiselessly  out  of  their 
sight  through  the  post-house  door. 

Up  above,  in  the  bedroom  that  lay  over  the  passage,  a 
rhythmic  sonorous  sound  gave  token  that  the  postmaster, 
at  least,  was  enjoying  the  abundant  fruits  of  blessed  re- 
pose. In  darkness  Pam  tiptoed  to  the  little  clean  kitchen, 
and  cautiously  lighting  the  candle  that  her  own  hands  had 
left  ready  for  her  on  the  corner  of  the  dresser,  held  it 
gently  about  her  on  all  sides  in  final  inspection,  for  the 
observance  of  any  little  neglected  duties  that  might  be 
the  better  for  doing  before  she  took  her  way  to  bed.  To 
one  side  of  the  fireplace  there  was  the  little  clothes-horse 
standing — more,  by  right,  a  pony — gaily  caparisoned  with 
clocked  hose  and  plain;  long  stockings  and  short;  grey 
woollens ;  unstarched  collars ;  and  sundry  inspiriting  pink 
and  white  frilled  trappings,  that  should  have  given  mettle 
to  the  sorriest  nag  alive.  Through  the  internal  bright- 
ness of  remembered  music  Pam's  practical  mind  went  out 
instinctively  to  the  stockings.  She  set  down  her  candle, 
and  ran  them  one  by  one  like  gloves  over  her  left  hand  as 
far  as  the  foot,  working  her  fingers  within  the  hidden- 
most  recesses  of  toe  and  heel  for  any  signs  of  the  want- 
ing stitch.  Out  of  some  dozen  pairs  it  wanted  in  three 


150  THE  POST-GIRL 

that  forthwith  did  not  return  to  the  little  clothes-pony,  but 
went  over  her  left  arm  in  token  of  unsoundness.  With 
these  dangling  at  her  skirt  she  made  quick,  noiseless 
tracks  over  the  kitchen  floor  to  acquire  the  necessary  par- 
aphernalia of  repair— for  nobody  ever  recognised  the 
superiority  of  time  present  over  time  past  or  future  bet- 
ter than  Pam,  or,  recognising  it,  put  the  recognition  to 
more  practical  account— and  slipping  a  purposeful  finger 
through  the  ringed  handle  of  the  candlestick,  prepared  to 
fetch  worsted  from  the  kitchen  parlor. 

She  took  the  knob  in  her  hand  and  entered  naturally 
enough,  opening  the  door  gently  first  of  all,  against  any 
grease-sputtering  displacement  of  air,  and  keeping  watch 
on  the  candle's  behavior  as  she  brought  it  round  from  the 
shelter  of  her  bosom  and  passed  it  in  front  of  her  across 
the  threshold.  Quite  two  steps  forward  she  had  taken, 
with  her  eyes  on  the  little  yellow  flame,  before  some- 
thing strange  about  the  feel  of  the  room  plucked  peremp- 
torily at  her  attention  as  though  with  live  fingers,  and 
brought  her  up  on  her  heel,  gazing  in  front  of  her,  to  an 
involuntary  quick-drawn  breath  of  surprise.  On  the  wool 
mat,  in  the  centre  of  the  square  table  where  they  gath- 
ered at  meals,  stood  the  lamp,  still  burning  dimly,  and  in 
the  obscurity  beyond  the  lamp,  the  blur  as  of  a  second 
globe,  where  a  human  head  lay  bowed  in  the  supporting 
hollow  of  two  pallid  hands. 

Head  and  hands  of  the  schoolmaster,  beyond  a  doubt. 
How  well  Pam  knew  them ;  the  long  nervous  fingers,  that 
always  flew  to  his  throat  when  he  addressed  her,  as 
though  to  throttle  back  the  lurking  dog  of  his  dislike ;  the 
high,  bulging  forehead,  with  the  compressed  temples  and 
the  pulse  in  their  veins ;  the  whiteness  and  brightness  of 


THE  POST-GIRL  151 

the  scalp  where  the  hair  should  have  been.  Oh,  how  Pam 
had  studied  them  times  out  of  number,  like  some  strange, 
unlearnable  lesson,  trying  to  get  them  into  her  head  and 
realise  what  they  meant,  and  why — but  never,  perhaps, 
with  her  soft  eyelashes  fringing  a  greater  perplexity  than 
when  she  looked  over  them  to-night.  Never  before  had 
Pam  found  him — or  any  other  of  the  household — await- 
ing her  arrival  when  she  returned  from  a  late  sitting  with 
Father  Mostyn.  Was  he  troubled?  Was  he  ill? 

It  was  but  a  momentary  glimpse  of  him  that  she 
caught,  with  head  and  hands  together ;  but  in  that  one 
moment  he  seemed  all  these  things.  The  next,  while  Pam 
was  revolving  in  her  mind  whether  she  should  speak  his 
name  or  cough,  or  rattle  her  matches,  or  depart  more 
softly  than  she  had  come — the  attitude  dissolved.  The 
long  spectral  fingers  slid  downwards  (so  quickly  that  he 
might  have  been  merely  drawing  them  across  his  cheeks 
when  Pam  entered)  and  his  body  rose  from  the  chair  to 
a  standing  posture.  He  gave  no  look  at  Pam,  though  his 
averted  head  showed  recognition  of  her  presence. 

For  a  second  or  so  there  was  silence  in  the  room,  Pam 
gazing  over  her  candle  at  the  drawn  white  face — whiter 
and  more  drawn  than  usual,  it  seemed  to  her — with  the 
guilty  thought  beating  within  her  that  once  again  she  had 
brought  herself  before  this  man  unwelcomely.  Then, 
seeing  that  she  was  the  intruder,  and  that  he,  risen  to  full 
height  from  the  chair,  showed  no  signs  of  addressing  her, 
or  even  of  actively  ignoring  her,  but  stood  passive,  as 
though  she  had  summoned  his  attention  and  he  was  sim- 
ply giving  it,  without  prejudice  to  any  explanation  she 
might  wish  to  make— begged  his  pardon  (for  Heaven 
knows  what)  in  a  voice  of  infinite  apology  and  contrition. 


152  THE  POST-GIRL 

"I  hope  I  have  n't  disturbed  you.  .  .  "  she  said.  He 
bit  his  lip  over  a  strained  short  "No." 

"I  did  n't  mean  to.  I  only  came  in  for  some  worsted 
.  .  .  Emma  used  it  last.  A  grey  ball  with  three  needles 
in  it,  the  color  of  uncle's  stockings.  May  I  look  for  it? 
...  It  's  by  the  Bible,  I  think." 

Without  a  word  he  turned  on  his  heel  to  the  sideboard 
where  the  big  everyday  reading  Bible  lay,  and  com- 
menced a  silent  search.  Something  about  the  desolate 
droop  of  his  thin,  threadbare  shoulders  and  the  weary 
aimlessness  of  his  seeking,  sent  (as  his  rear  prospect 
always  seemed  to  send)  a  thrill  of  spontaneous  pity 
through  Pam's  heart.  Why  she  pitied  him,  or  exactly 
what  there  was  about  the  shiny  obverse  of  him  to  stimu- 
late the  emotion,  not  for  the  life  of  her  could  she  have  told. 

He  was  some  considerable  time  with  his  coat-tails 
turned  towards  her,  and  seemed,  by  the  laborious  stoop- 
ing of  his  shoulder,  quagmired  in  his  search,  she  sug- 
gested—with such  gentleness  of  breathing  as  would  not 
have  rocked  the  flame  of  her  candle— that  perhaps  .  .  . 
if  he  would  let  her  .  .  .  she  might  be  able.  .  .  . 

Immediately  he  spun  round  from  the  side  cupboard  as 
though  she  had  struck  him,  with  the  needles  flashing  in 
his  hand. 

"Is  this  your  worsted?"  he  said. 

"Oh  .  .  .  thank  you  so  much !" 

Her  eyes  corroborated  the  color  in  an  instant,  and  she 
started  forward  with  grateful  extended  hand  to  relieve 
him  of  the  necessity  for  coming  more  than  halfway 
across  the  kitchen  to  meet  her. 

He  took  the  words,  but  his  eyes  refused  to  admit  the 
look.  "No  thoroughfare"  seemed  eternally  writ  up  over 


THE  POST-GIRL  153 

them.  Pam  gazed  a  second  at  the  stern  intimation,  and 
then,  cuddling  her  candle  to  her  for  departure,  turned— 
softly,  so  that  he  might  not  construe  one  single  grain  of 
.anger  into  her  going — for  the  door.  Halfway  there  she 
looked  back  irresolutely  over  a  shoulder,  hesitating 
whether  to  speak  or  not. 

"Your  lamp  ...  is  getting  low,"  at  length  she  ven- 
tured. "I  think,  perhaps  ...  it  may  want  a  little  more 
oil.  Shall  I  refill  it  for  you?"  she  inquired  solicitously. 
"The  smell  may  give  you  a  headache." 

For  answer  he  stooped  over  the  table  on  both  hands 
and  blew  out  the  convulsed  flame  with  two  short  breaths. 
A  thin,  acrid  column  of  smoke  from  the  red  wick  com- 
menced to  wend  its  way  upward,  like  a  soul  in  tedious 
migration. 

"I  am  going  to  bed,"  he  said. 

Pam's  quick  ear  caught  the  sudden  collapse  of  utter 
weariness  in  his  voice  as  he  said  it.  Something  in  the 
sound  of  it  smote  her  soul  to  pity,  as  though  she  had  had 
a  momentary  sight  of  his  shoulders. 

"You  were  not  .  .  .  sitting  up  ...  for  me?"  she 
asked — begged  would  be  a  better  word. 

"Why  should  I  sit  up  ...  for  you?"  he  asked  her; 
and  his  two  hands  went  up  to  his  collar. 

"I  don't  know  .  .  .  why  you  should,"  she  said,  pluck- 
ing her  reply  to  pieces,  petal  by  petal,  in  soft  embarrass- 
ment, as  though  it  had  been  a  flower.  All  the  working 
of  his  lips,  it  seemed  to  her,  could  not  conceal  the  sar- 
donic amusement  her  answer  stirred  in  him.  Red  shame 
rushed  up  the  slim  column  of  the  girl's  neck  and  plunged 
for  hiding  in  the  roots  of  her  hair.  ".  .  .  And  of  course 

.  .  .  you  did  n't,"  she  hastened  to  add. 


154  THE  POST- GIRL 

"Of  course." 

Whether  he  repeated  her  words  in  mere  unconcerned 
assent,  or  pressed  upon  them  with  the  hard  knuckle  of 
sarcasm,  or  was  using  them  interrogatively,  Pam  could 
not  make  sure,  nor  dared  she  ask,  though  she  delayed 
awhile  with  her  eyes  fixed  for  solution  upon  his  face. 

"I  'm  glad  you  did  n't,"  she  said  gently,  and  in  silence 
led  the  way  into  the  little  clean  kitchen.  "You  will  want 
a  fresh  candle,"  she  said,  putting  her  own  down  once 
more  on  the  dresser,  and  reaching  the  empty  holder,  that 
by  household  consent  was  allowed  to  pertain  to  his  exclu- 
sive use. 

Out  of  a  drawer  in  the  dresser  she  produced  a  piece  of 
newspaper ;  tore  off  a  strip ;  narrowed  its  width  by  fold- 
ing ;  bound  it  neatly  round  the  base  of  the  candle ;  pressed 
the  candle  securely  into  its  socket;  lighted  it  from  her 
own,  and  handed  it— after  its  flame  was  sufficiently  es- 
tablished— to  the  waiting  man. 

He  took  it  awkwardly  and  tardily  enough,  rocking  so 
long  in  silence  on  his  feet  before  acceptance,  with  head 
thrown  forward  and  chin  bearing  heavily  over  his  collar, 
that  for  some  moments  Pam  had  doubts  whether  he  was 
not  fast  asleep  and  about  to  fall  prone  across  the  out- 
stretched candle  and  her.  But  roused  at  length,  as  it 
would  seem,  by  her  prolonged  gaze  of  inquiry,  he  lifted 
his  head  and  extended  an  uncertain  hand —  a  hand  so  un- 
certain, indeed,  that  at  the  first  attempt  it  went  wide  of 
the  candlestick  altogether.  At  the  second,  more  through 
Pam's  management  than  his,  thumb  and  finger  closed 
upon  it  and  he  turned  to  go.  The  look  of  his  dazed  eyes 
and  the  dry,  white  lips  that  rubbed  impotently  sideways 


THE  POST-GIRL  155 

upon  each  other  to  shape  a  soundless  "Thank  you,"  sent 
a  great  surging  tide  of  solicitous  alarm  through  Pam's 
bosom.  She  was  after  him  in  a  moment. 

"Mr.  Frewin  .  .  .  Mr.  Frewin.  .  .  .    Are  you  ill  ?" 


CHAPTER  XIII 

HIS  foot  was  already  on  the  first  step  when  she  urged 
her  bated  voice  of  inquiry  after  him.  He  stayed  for 
a  moment  so,  as  though  he  lacked  strength  to  ascend  or 
purpose  to  speak,  and  then  turned  upon  her  very  slowly. 

"You  ask  that,"  he  said,  compressing  his  words 
through  bloodless  lips,  hard  and  set.  "Don't  you  know  ? 
Can't  you  see?" 

The  fixed,  meaningful  way  he  looked  at  her,  as  though 
his  face  were  a  written  answer,  and  she  could  read  it  if 
she  would,  and  the  strange,  underlying  emphasis  of  his 
question,  took  Pam  altogether  by  surprise.  Did  n't  she 
know?  Could  n't  she  see?  All  the  dread  sicknesses  un- 
der the  sun  seemed  to  swathe  him  and  envelope  him  in 
their  hideous  mantles  as  she  gazed  ...  a  fearful  kaleid- 
oscopic counterpane  of  ailments.  Which  of  all  these  had 
her  blindness  overlooked? 

Did  n't  she  know  ?    Could  n't  she  see  ? 

"See  what?"  she  begged,  in  the  whispered  hush  of  a 
voice  that  besought  an  answer  it  scarcely  dared  to  hear. 
For,  framed  in  the  narrow  dark  inlet  of  the  staircase, 
with  the  candle  casting  corpse-hollows  over  his  eyes,  and 
sinking  his  cheeks  under  shadow,  and  sharpening  his 
nose,  and  hardening  his  nostrils— to  the  girl's  disturbed 
imagination  he  seemed  dead  and  coffined  already.  "Oh, 
tell  me,  please !— what  I  ought  to  see.  Oh,  I  am  so  sorry ! 

156 


THE  POST-GIRL  157 

Is  there  anything  you  want?  Is  there  anything  I  can  get 
you  ?" 

"You  know  what  I  want,"  he  said,  and  Lazarus,  wak- 
ened from  the  dead,  might  have  spoken  his  first  words  in 
just  such  a  voice. 

"/  know  what  you  want?"  repeated  Pam,  falling  back 
a  little  dismayed  before  the  directness  of  his  charge,  and 
the  black  inability  of  her  mind  to  meet  it. 

".  .  .  You,"  he  said. 

"Me?"  said  Pam  again,  more  vacantly  still,  taking  the 
word  from  him,  and  trying  it  in  turn,  like  a  key,  upon 
all  those  sayings  that  had  gone  before,  to  see  which  of 
their  several  senses  it  might  fit  and  open.  Then,  all  of  a 
sudden  she  saw  the  door  it  opened,  and  the  threshold  it 
led  over,  and  let  the  key  fall,  as  it  were,  from  her  hands, 
and  covered  her  face  hotly  with  her  ten  small  fingers. 
"Oh,  no,  no,  no !"  she  panted.  "You  don't  mean  that." 

She  opened  a  place  in  her  fingers  to  look  at  him 
through,  in  the  silence  that  followed,  like  a  fawn  staring 
startled  from  out  the  high  stalks  of  a  thicket,  and  let  both 
hands  slip  downward  to  her  skirts  with  the  limp  fall  of 
bewilderment.  To  think  this  was  the  secret  of  his  dis- 
favor ;  this  the  reason  for  all  his  anger,  and  all  her  self- 
interrogations.  That  he  loved  her. 

He  laid  down  his  candle  on  the  dresser  beside  her  own, 
and  ran  the  finger  of  his  left  hand  looseningly  round  the 
inner  rim  of  his  collar,  as  though  it  had  suddenly  grown 
tight  about  him. 

"Why  not  that  ?"  he  said,  in  a  voice  so  low  and  nature- 
less  and  hoarse  that  it  might  have  issued  from  a  man  of 
straw,  for  all  the  tone  it  gave. 

"Because  ...  oh  ...  because  of  everything,"   Pam 


158  THE  POST- GIRL 

told  him,  with  troubled  eyes  and  lips  and  fingers.  "I 
never  expected  it.  It  's  all  so  sudden." 

"Sudden,"  he  said. 

Pam  moved  her  lips  in  mournful  affirmation.  It  cut 
her  to  the  quick  to  hurt  him. 

"I  'm  afraid  so,"  she  said,  laying  the  words  soothingly 
over  the  raw  in  his  soul.  ".  .  .  Terribly  sudden." 

".  .  .  When  it  's  been  going  on  ...  for  two  years. 
Ever  since  ...  I  came.  You  call  that  sudden?" 

"So  long  as  that?"  said  Pam,  in  open-eyed  amaze. 
"Oh,  I  never  knew  it.  Indeed  I  did  n't.  I  had  n't  the 
faintest  idea." 

He  passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead  with  a  look  of 
pain. 

".  .  .  And  I  thought  I  could  n't  keep  it  from  you — 
even  when  I  tried.  I  fancied  you  read  me  through  and 
through,  and  understood  what  I  wanted  to  ask  of  you — 
but  could  n't,  till  now.  You  looked  as  though  you  did. 
Did  n't  you  ?  Don't  play  with  me.  Tell  me.  You  must 
have  known." 

Pam  shook  a  head  of  pitying  negation. 

"It  was  n't  that  T  did  n't  try,"  she  told  him,  ".  .  .  for  I 
tried  my  best.  But  I  could  n't.  I  never  thought  .  .  . 
you  cared  one  little  bit  about  me.  If  I  'd  thought  you 
cared  for  me  .  .  .  there  are  lots  of  unkind  things  I  'd 
never  have  done  that  I  did  do,  without  thinking.  I 
would  n't  have  followed  you  into  the  room  when  you 
were  alone,  and  looked  at  you,  and  tried  to  make  you 
look  at  me,  and  spoken  to  you.  Never.  You  '11  believe  I 
would  n't  when  I  say  so,  won't  you  ?  All  the  time  I  was 
only  trying  to  make  friends  with  you — that  I  was  already, 
though  I  did  n't  know  it.  And  all  the  time  you  thought 


THE  POST- GIRL  159 

.  .  .  that  I  saw  what  was  the  matter  with  you,  and  knew 
why  you  would  n't  look  at  me,  and  what  you  meant  when 
you  turned  your  back.  But  I  did  n't.  Indeed  I  did  n't. 
Oh,  how  spiteful  and  cruel  you  must  have  thought  me," 
she  said,  with  the  beautiful  wetness  of  tears  about  her 
lashes.  "And  I  did  n't  mean  it  for  cruelty  a  bit.  I  meant 
it  for  kindness.  It  's  all  been  a  mistake  from  the  first." 

"Is  it  a  mistake  .  .  .  now?"  he  asked. 

"A  mistake  now?"  said  Pam,  and  looked  at  him  for  a 
moment;  and  then  drew  a  breath,  and  looked  at  him 
again;  and  drew  another  breath,  and  still  looked  at  him; 
while  her  lower  lip  broke  loose  and  fluttered  a  little,  like 
a  hovering  butterfly,  and  stopped,  and  fluttered  a  second 
time,  and  her  lashes  fell  by  an  almost  imperceptible  shade 
— less  a  falling  of  the  lashes,  indeed,  than  a  falling  of 
something  not  definable— a  thin,  gauzy,  darkening  veil  of 
trouble,  it  seemed  to  be,  over  the  very  look  itself.  "I 
hope  not,"  she  said;  but  her  voice  and  her  eyes  and  her 
lips  belied  the  hope  she  spoke  of.  "We  understand  each 
other  now  .  .  .  don't  we?" 

"What  do  we  understand?"  he  asked  huskily. 

"I  thought  you  knew,"  Pam  said,  setting  her  gaze  on 
him,  in  intrepid  wonderment  to  think  he  should  compre- 
hend so  badly,  or  so  soon  forget.  "I  've  just  .  .  .  been 
telling  you." 

"I  know  nothing,"  he  said,  and  then  in  a  sudden  husky 
outburst  of  avowal :  "There  is  only  one  thing  I  want  to 
know.  I  've  told  you  what  it  is.  Have  you  nothing  to  say 
in  return?" 

The  unavailing  exertion  of  trying  to  raise  his  lead- 
heavy  voice  clear  of  a  low  whisper  made  him  stop  to 
cough— the  hard,  dry  cough  that  weeks  of  patient  nurs 


160  THE  POST-GIRL 

ing  and  nights  of  anxious  solicitude  had  taught  Pam  to 
know  so  well. 

"Nothing  .  .  .  that  I  should  like  to  say,"  Pam  an- 
swered unsteadily.  "Nothing  that  you  would  wish  to 
hear  me  say.  I  thought  .  .  .  I  'd  said  everything.  Oh, 
please  .  .  .  don't  ask  me  to  say  any  more.  It  might  only 
make  things  worse." 

He  swallowed  time  upon  time  in  slow  succession. 

"And  this  is  the  end  of  all  my  waiting?" 

"If  you  '11  let  it,  please,  it  is,"  Pam  begged  him,  very 
pleadingly  for  herself;  very  sorrowfully  for  him. 

"I  can't  let  it,"  he  blurted  after  a  while.  "You  don't 
know  what  you  are  asking  of  me.  I  can't  give  you 
up." 

"But  I  'm  not  yours  to  give,"  Pam  protested,  with  an 
awed  voice,  at  this  unexpected  assumption  of  possession. 

"Whose  are  you  ?"  he  cried 

"Nobody's,  of  course,"  Pam  said,  in  meek  submission, 
"except  my  own." 

"You  could  be  mine  ...  if  you  would,"  he  told  her, 
grappling  with  his  throat  again.  "Just  for  the  saying  of 
a  word  you  could.  I  've  waited  for  you  for  two  years.  Is 
one  word  too  much  to  give  .  .  .  for  two  years'  waiting?" 

"Ginger  waited  for  me  longer  than  that,"  Pam  said, 
very  simply.  "And  I  said  'No'  to  Ginger." 

"Who  was  Ginger,  to  want  you?"  he  exclaimed.  "You 
could  never  have  married  Ginger." 

"I  did  n't,"  said  Pam  quietly.    "But  Ginger  loved  me.'' 

"I  love  you,"  he  said  fiercely. 

"Ginger  loved  me  first,"  Pam  maintained  stoutly. 
"And  others  loved  me  before  Ginger.  If  I  'd  said  to 
them  what  they  wanted  me  to  say  to  them  and  what  you 


THE  POST-GIRL  161 

want  me  to  say  to  you,  there  would  never  have  been  any 
question  of  your  asking  me." 

"Why  did  n't  you  let  me  die  ...  when  I  had  the 
chance?"  he  demanded  bitterly.  "But  you  were  kind  to 
me  then.  You  took  advantage  of  me.  You  were  kind 
when  I  was  ill  and  could  n't  help  myself.  Death  stood  as 
near  to  me  as  I  stand  to  you  .  .  .  but  day  and  night  you 
stood  between  us  both  and  saved  me." 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  Pam  disclaimed  hastily,  in  twofold  fear 
and  modesty,  shrinking  before  the  acceptance  of  such  an 
obligation.  "It  was  n't  I  that  saved  you.  It  was  you 
yourself  that  got  strong  and  better.  I  only  sat  by  you 
and  did  what  little  I  could ;  but  it  was  nothing  at  all  ... 
really." 

"Nothing  at  all,"  he  said,  and  clenched  his  fist  in  as- 
surance. "It  was  everything.  Why  did  I  get  stronger  and 
better — but  for  you?  Because  you  were  by  me,  and  be- 
cause I  wanted  you  .  .  .  and  could  n't  bear  to  leave  you. 
Look,"  he  said,  standing  back  from  her  suddenly,  as 
though  to  give  her  full  view  of  his  statement,  "do  you 
know  there  were  times  .  .  .  times  when  I  could  have 
turned  my  face  to  the  wall  and  died  for  the  mere  wish- 
ing?" 

"But  you  would  never  have  done  that,"  Pam  whis- 
pered, in  hushed  alarm. 

"Why  should  n't  I  have  done  it?"  he  asked  her,  ".  .  . 
when  death  was  so  easy  and  living  so  hard?  You  alone 
stopped  me  from  doing  it.  The  thought  of  you  and  the 
sight  of  you,  and  the  hope  of  you.  Often  and  often  I 
was  looking  at  you  .  .  .  when  you  thought  I  was  asleep." 

"Sometimes  I  saw  you,"  said  Pam. 

".  .  .  And  making  up  my  mind  whether  to  die  ...  or 
11 


162  THE  POST-GIRL 

risk  living  .  .  .  for  your  sake.  But  I  never  could  die 
.  .  .  because  of  you.  And  once,  when  you  had  been  a 
long  while  gone  ...  I  said  to  myself :  'How  easy  to  slip 
off  now  .  .  .  before  she  comes  back'  .  .  .  and  just  as  I 
was  wondering  whether  there  would  be  time  .  .  .  you 
came  in,  and  stooped  over  me  and  kissed  me.  How 
could  I  die  after  that?  Once  I  made  up  my  mind 
to  kiss  you  back  .  .  .  but  my  lips  had  n't  strength.  You 
saw  them  move,  and  asked  me  if  I  wanted  a  drink, 
and  I  said  'Yes' ;  but  I  did  n't.  And  you  cried  over  me, 
too." 

"I  was  sorry  for  you,"  said  Pam.  "I  wanted  you  to 
get  better." 

"Are  n't  you  sorry  for  me  now  ?"  he  asked.  ".  .  .  Now 
that  my  mind  is  ill  ...  as  my  body  was  then?" 

The  terrible  earnestness  of  his  love  troubled  her.  Love 
before  she  had  witnessed  in  plenty,  but  never  love  like 
this.  It  was  as  though  she  stood  with  clasped  hands  be- 
fore some  burning  homestead  that  her  own  unintending 
fingers  had  fired,  and  saw  the  fierce  wind  fan  the  flames, 
and  heard  the  cry  for  succor  from  within  .  .  .  and  could 
do  nothing.  Oh,  it  was  horrible!  For  a  while  they 
looked  at  each  other  and  said  nothing,  for  each  feared 
speaking;  he,  lest  he  might  divert  Pam's  answer;  Pam, 
because  she  had  no  answer  to  divert. 

"Well?"  he  said  at  length.  "Have  you  nothing  to  say 
to  me?" 

Pam  only  shook  her  head.  What  had  she  to  say,  and 
how  could  she  say  it  when  her  own  great  heart  was  ham- 
mering away  like  a  stone-mason  in  the  place  where  her 
voice  should  have  been. 

"Not  even  a  word?"   he   said,   with   a  broken   sob. 


THE  POST-GIRL  163 

"Won't  you  say  .  .  .  you  '11  try  and  care  for  me  ...  if 
I  can  make  you  ?  Is  it  too  much  to  ask  that  ?" 

Pam  put  her  hands  to  her  face. 

"Oh  ...  I  don't  know.  What  am  I  to  say?  What 
am  I  to  do?" 

".  .  .  Do  nothing,"  he  said  bitterly. 

"But  I  want  to  do  something,"  Pam  protested  desper- 
ately— though  her  own  shrinking  conscience  told  her  how 
little.  ".  .  .  And  I  don't  say  I  won't  try.  But  perhaps 
...  I  could  never  learn.  I  don't  know.  How  am  I  to 
know?  And  if  I  say  I  '11  try  .  .  .  and  can't  in  the  end 
.  .  .  what  a  dreadful  thing  for  us  both.  .  .  .  Oh,  are  you 
quite  sure  there  's  nothing  short  of  love  that  will  do?" 
she  asked,  with  the  lameness  that  can  get  no  further,  and 
wrenched  her  hands,  and  looked  at  him  in  helpless  appeal. 

"That  means  you  won't  try?"  he  said;  and  she  could 
see  his  hand  close  tight  upon  the  dresser. 

"Oh,  no,  no,  no  ...  I  will  try!"  Pam  cried,  charging 
blindly  down  the  open  roadway  of  consent,  for  fault  of 
any  other  way  to  turn.  ".  .  .  If  you  wish  it,  I  '11  try. 
But  oh,  please,  it  is  n't  the  least  bit  of  a  promise  .  .  .  and 
you  must  n't  ...  must  n't  build  on  it.  And  you  must  n't 
try  and  force  me  to  learn  ...  or  be  angry  with  me  if 
I  'm  slow  ...  or  can't.  Perhaps  I  can't.  Oh,  it  may 
very  well  be  that  I  can't  .  .  .  for  all  my  trying. 

"...  And  even  ...  if  I  ever  grew  to  care  anything 
for  you  ...  in  the  way  you  want — and  I  dare  n't  think 
or  say.  It  all  seems  so  sudden  and  unreal.  It  seems  as 
though  I  were  dreaming  it.  Last  night — half  an  hour 
ago  even — I  never  thought  you  wanted  to  speak  to  me 
or  have  anything  to  do  with  me  at  all,  and  now — you  're 
asking  me  to  try  and  love  you.  And  even  if  I  grow  to 


164  THE  POST-GIRL 

care  for  you  in  that  way  (and  I  don't  know.  Oh,  you 
must  n't  think  I  'm  promising)  I  should  n't  want  ...  I 
mean  it  would  have  to  be  ...  oh,  for  a  long  time. 
Years,  perhaps.  Longer  than  ever  you  cared  to  wait.  I 
told  .  .  .  somebody  once,  when  they  asked  me— what 
you  've  been  asking  me,  that  I  never  meant  to  get  mar- 
ried. And  if  I  did  ...  it  would  be  like  acting  a  story  to 
them— as  they  said  I  was  doing  at  the  time.  And  I  've 
said  'No'  to  such  lots  of  others  too  .  .  .  and  now  to  say 
'Yes'  to  anybody  (and  I  'm  only  saying  half  'Yes'— only  a 
quarter  'Yes'— to  you)  seems,  somehow,  like  breaking 
faith.  It  seems  mean  .  .  .  and  unfair.  And  anyway  it 
could  n't  ...  could  n't  possibly  be  yet.  Could  n't  be  for 
ever  such  a  long  time.  Perhaps  you  'd  never  want  to 
wait  so  long  as  that." 

"Wait?"  He  thrust  out  his  hand  desperately  to  shut 
this  dangerous  back-door  of  her  concession.  "With  you 
at  the  end  of  my  waiting  ...  I  would  wait  till  the  Judg- 
ment Day." 

The  dreary,  dogged  patience  of  the  man's  passion 
chilled  Pam.  It  rose  up  high  in  her.  mind  like  an  awe- 
some black  monument  of  Patience,  and  cast  its  great 
shadow  over  the  brightness  of  her  life — on  and  on  and 
on  interminably,  out  of  sight  to  the  dull  sun-setting  of 
her  days.  If  she  could  have  recalled  her  words  then.  If 
she  could  have  had  the  strength,  the  moral  strength,  to 
throw  him  aside  from  her  then  and  there— at  never  mind 
what  momentary  cost  to  their  feelings.  All  her  soul,  she 
knew,  was  striving  impotently  to  cast  off  the  encum- 
brance of  him— but  the  strength  was  lacking.  Strength 
to  be  cruel;  strength  to  be  kind.  Because  she  could  not 
bring  herself  to  deal  the  one  smart  blow  that  the  moment 


THE  POST- GIRL  165 

required  with  her  own  hand  .  .  .  she  was  throwing  her- 
self contemptibly  upon  the  protection  of  the  Future; 
making  herself  the  Future's  ward,  and  trusting,  in  some 
blind,  unreasoning  fashion,  that  her  guardian  would  be 
responsible  for  her  when  the  time  came,  and  do  for 
her  what  she  had  lacked  the  daring  to  do  for  herself,  and 
free  her  without  consequence  (if  so  needed),  and  deal 
happiness  all  round  with  that  lavish  hand  for  which  the 
Future  is,  and  has  been,  and  ever  will  be,  so  extolled. 

Wild,  fatal  fantasy  of  Pam's— that  she  shared  in  com- 
mon with  every  man,  woman,  and  temporising  child  of 
this  self -deluded,  procrastinating  world.  For  the  Future 
is  that  dread  witch  that,  appearing  first  under  the  guise 
of  a  sweet  and  amiable  old  lady,  turns  suddenly  into  the 
red-eyed,  horrid  old  hag  of  to-day. 

But  alas!  The  compact  was  drawn  and  signed  and 
sealed.  What  consequence  that  Pam  imposed  a  hundred 
feverish  reservations  and  supplications,  and  qualifications 
and  amendments,  and  loopholes  and  contingencies  upon 
her  little  old  lady  in  the  signing— and  seemed  to  be 
granted  them  every  one  ?  Into  this  little  old  lady's  house 
she  signed  herself  for  all  that,  and  henceforth  all  her 
goings  and  comings,  and  sleepings  and  wakings  were  no 
longer  her  sweet  own,  as  heretofore,  but  under  the  au- 
thority and  subject  to  the  control  of  the  little  sweet  ami- 
able old  lady — who  was  only  biding  her  good  time  (as 
you  may  be  sure)  to  snap  into  the  horrid,  red-eyed  hag 
we  wot  of,  and  fall  upon  Pam  with  the  black  venom  of 
her  malignant  nature. 

ALL  through  the  remaining  hours  till  dawn  and  day- 
light the  cough  of  the  schoolmaster  rang  out  monoto- 


166  THE  POST-GIRL 

nously,  dull  and  muffled,  from  beneath  the  bedclothes  like 
a  funeral  bell,  and  Pam,  the  only  other  awake  in  that 
household  to  hear  it,  lay  and  listened  to  its  tolling 
with  great,  wide  eyes  staring  at  the  darkness  of  the  ceil- 
ing, and  at  the  darkness  beyond  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and 
at  the  darkness  where  the  door  was,  and  sometimes  pas- 
sionately into  the  smothered  darkness  of  her  own  pillow, 
and  said  to  herself,  with  a  wondering  horror : 
"When  daybreak  comes  .  .  .  shall  I  wake?" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

KEEN  July,  gliding  smoothly  on  the  noiseless  axles 
vJT  of  its  diurnal  wheels,  gives  way  at  last  to  golden 
August,  and  beneath  the  assiduous  burning  of  the  sun 
the  cornfields  begin  to  brown  like  the  crust  of  a  pasty 
under  the  brasing  iron.  It  is  the  mystic  eve  of  harvest, 
that  consummation  of  the  farmer's  year,  and  all  the 
countryside  is  palpitating  with  it.  Everywhere  the  talk 
is  of  cutting,  and  men,  on  meeting,  cast  anxious  eyes 
from  .each  other's  faces  to  the  sky  and  ask : 

"Will  it  'owd  [hold],  think  ye?" 

And  while  this  vast  metamorphosis  of  color  is  creep- 
ing over  the  land,  and  the  countryside  seems  beating  like 
a  breast  towards  the  consummation  of  its  great  purpose, 
Pam  and  the  piano  and  the  Spawer  and  Father  Mostyn 
grow  daily  into  a  bond  of  deeper  sympathy,  and  the 
wondrous  ripening  process,  so  visible  in  externals,  is  go- 
ing on  no  less  surely  within  their  own  hearts.  On  the 
little  cracked  Vicarage  piano  Pam  practises  assiduously, 
and  such  is  her  zeal  for  the  labor,  and  such  her  sense  of 
loyal  gratitude  to  the  setter  of  it  and  her  desire  to  fulfil 
his  instructions  that,  by  sheer  force  of  love  alone,  she 
keeps  pace  with  what  he  teaches  and  wins  his  admiring 
praise  for  her  progress.  Sometimes  they  gather  at  Fa- 
ther Mostyn's,  cutting  into  chicken-pies  one  night  and  fin- 
ishing them  off  another.  Sometimes  Father  Mostyn  and 

167 


168  THE  POST-GIRL 

Pam  walk  up  to  Cliff  Wrangham  for  the  benefit  of  the 
better  piano,  and  compare  the  Archdeaconess's  cookery — 
without  comment,  and  very  kindly— and  are  set  back  by 
the  Spawer,  filled  with  music  and  affection. 

A  state  of  things  which  greatly  indignates  the  orphan 
Mary  Anne,  who  cries  aloud  to  herself : 

"Is  there  nawbody  good  enough  for  'im  at  Cliff 
Wrangham  bud  'e  mun  gan  'is  ways  an'  fetch  'em  fro' 
Oolbrig?" 

And  every  morning,  with  the  habit  of  second  nature, 
the  Spawer  goes  forth  and  sits  on  the  lane  gate  about 
Pam's  time,  and  feels  a  sense  of  emptiness  somewhere— 
as  though  he  'd  gone  without  his  breakfast— when  she 
does  n't  come.  But  when  she  does,  and  he  sees  her  hat  or 
her  blue  Tam-o'-Shanter  sailing  briskly  along  the  hedge- 
row, his  released  expectancy  curls  up  into  smiles  like 
stretched  wire,  and  he  strolls  to  meet  her  as  though  his 
face  had  never  known  doubt,  and  accompanies  her  hence- 
forth to  the  end  of  her  journey,  so  that  the  girl's  brisk 
walk,  divided  now  between  the  two  of  them,  is  a  gentle 
amble  scarcely  quicker  than  Tankard's  'bus  that  daily 
rumbled  through  Ullbrig. 

Their  communion  on  these  occasions,  as  at  all  times,  is 
simple  and  sacred.  The  perspicacious  reader  who  has 
been  preparing  for  tender  dialogues  full  of  love  and  its 
understanding  will  have  to  suffer  the  penalty  of  his  per- 
spicacity, for  the  sweet  trivialities  of  love  are  in  no  way 
touched  upon.  They  talk  of  music;  of  struggles  with 
"flesh"  of  technique ;  of  composition ;  of  the  meaning  of 
music— if  it  has  any.  They  talk  of  French,  and  they  talk 
French,  of  the  recognised  question  and  answer  pattern, 
till  Pam  gains  quite  a  vocabulary  of  sea-coast  words,  and 


THE  POST- GIRL  169 

could  make  herself  understood  intelligibly — and  certainly 
prettily — to  any  Frenchman  on  any  cliff  you  like  to  name. 
And  they  talk  quite  sincerely  about  the  sea  and  the  blue- 
ness  of  it;  and  bend  down  their  heads  for  the  better  ap- 
preciation of  this  great  round  bubble  of  color ;  and  draw 
each  other's  attention  to  clouds,  to  bees,  to  butterflies, 
and  nameless  insects  fluttering  by.  At  other  times,  the 
Spawer  talks  to  her  of  his  student  life  abroad  and  of  his 
present-day  ambitions ;  the  sort  of  glory  he  covets  and  the 
sort  of  glory  by  which  he  sets  no  store.  And  the  talk  is 
of  composers  and  schools  of  composers;  and  players  and 
schools  of  players — thick  as  shoals  of  herrings — till  Pam, 
who  never  forgets  a  precious  word  of  what  this  deified 
mortal  tells  her,  but  can  reproduce  its  exact  use  and  in- 
flection for  her  own  hearing  at  any  future  time,  is  full  to 
the  red  lips  with  critical  discernments  and  differentia- 
tions, and  could  astonish  any  wandering,  way-logged  mu- 
sician who  might,  for  the  sake  of  illustration,  be  pre- 
sumed to  find  himself  in  the  district,  and  open  subject  of 
his  own  business  with  this  sweet  girl  stranger  under  her 
Government  bag. 

Sometimes,  towards  the  end  of  an  evening  at  Father 
Mostyn's,  the  Doctor  drops  in  upon  them  casually,  intro- 
ducing himself  with  the  invariable  "Don't  let  me  distairrb 
ye" — though  it  is  known  he  comes  for  whist.  Music  ap- 
peals to  him  about  as  meaningfully  as  a  German  band  to 
a  stray  dog ;  and  being  a  Scotchman,  he  says  so  in  the  few- 
est words  wherein  this  hard  truth  can  be  contained,  nor 
ceases  to  manifest  a  lurking  distrust  of  the  piano  until 
they  are  safely  squared  round  the  card-table,  and  the 
cards  are  being  cut.  In  his  own  Scotch  way  he  is  as  fond 
of  Pam  as  can  be,  and  on  the  strength  of  this  tacit  affec- 


I7o  THE  POST-GIRL 

tion  asks  her  bluntly  to  do  whatever  he  may  happen  to 
be  in  need  of  at  the  time. 

"Ye  '11  hae  to  gie  me  another  match,  Pam,"  he  says 
unconcernedly,  as  he  deals,  without  looking  at  her.  "A  'm 
no  alicht  yet." 

And  when  she  offers  it  to  him,  already  lighted,  he 
merely  holds  his  pipe-bowl  towards  her  from  his  mouth, 
as  a  matter  of  course,  scooping  up  his  cards  and  drawing 
vigorously,  while  Pam  applies  the  flame,  till  combustion 
is  effected,  when  he  draws  his  mouth  away. 

"Clubs  are  trumps,"  says  he. 

Pam  does  n't  mind  his  disregard  of  her  in  the  least, 
for  you  see  he  does  n't  mean  anything  by  it,  being  a 
Scotchman ;  but  she  would  enjoy  these  games  better  if 
the  exigencies  of  play  did  not  always  pit  her  against  the 
Spawer,  inasmuch  as  she  and  he,  being  the  two  weak 
members  of  the  quartette,  can  never  be  partnered  against 
such  past  masters  as  his  Reverence  and  the  Doctor. 
Eventually,  since  it  proves  itself  the  most  equable  divi- 
sion of  the  table,  she  comes  to  be  the  accepted  partner  of 
the  latter,  who  does  not  hesitate  to  acquaint  her,  with 
cutting  directness,  of  any  discrepancy  in  her  play. 

"What  the  deil  made  ye  lead  trumps,  Pam?"  he  de- 
manded of  her,  in  blank  surprise,  on  one  occasion.  "Did 
ye  no  see  me  look  at  ye  last  time  Father  Mostyn  led 
them?" 

He  is  a  typical  hardy  Scotsman,  all  sinew  and  gristle, 
and  raw  about  the  neck,  and  thinks  little— if  indeed  at 
all — concerning  dress.  For  the  most  part,  you  will  see 
him  bicycling  about  the  roads  in  meagre  knickerbockers 
that  were  trousers  when  he  first  came  to  Ullbrig,  blue 
stockings,  and  heavy-soled  boots,  with  the  tags  sticking 


THE  POST-GIRL  171 

off  them  like  spurs.  In  other  respects,  he  is  a  reader  of 
profane  literature  and  avowed  sceptic.  Between  him  and 
his  Reverence  the  Vicar  is  a  standing  feud  of  opinion, 
which  finds  vent  in  many  an  argumentative  battle  royal. 
At  the  end  of  one  of  these  tremendous  conflicts,  that 
would  almost  be  hand-to-hand  at  times  but  for  the  pacific 
whiskey-bottle  between  them,  the  Doctor  rises  to  his  feet, 
buttons  his  coat-collar  as  a  preliminary  to  departure,  and 
cries  vehemently : 

"Hey,  mon,  but  there  's  na  driving  sense  nor  reason 
into  ye.  Hand  over  the  whiskey,  and  I  '11  be  gone.  Ye  're 
as  stubborn  as  Balaam's  donkey." 

"Ha!  with  the  same  authority,  dear  brother,"  his  Rev- 
erence answers  blandly. 

"And  what  authority  will  that  be,  pray  ?"  asks  the  Doc- 
tor, bending  the  stiff  neck  of  the  whiskey-bottle  towards  his 
tumbler,  as  though  it  were  his  Reverence  he  had  hold  of. 

"Divine  authority,  dear  brother,"  says  Father  Mostyn. 
"Divine  authority." 

"Divine  authority,"  says  the  Doctor.  ".  .  .  Wi'  yer 
meeracles.  Mon,  hae  ye  ever  hairrd  a  donkey  speak?" 

"Ha!  frequently,  frequently,"  murmurs  his  Reverence, 
focussing  a  distant  point  of  space  through  his  eyelashes, 
and  waltzing  softly,  without  animus,  to  and  fro  in  his 
foot  radius. 

"Ah  'm  no  speakin'  pairsonally,  ye  understand,"  the 
Doctor  says,  with  a  tinge  of  remonstrance  for  levity,  "but 
it  will  hae  been  in  the  pulpit  ye  have  hairrd  it.  Mon,  hae 
ye  never  read  Hume  on  the  Meeracles?  Are  ye  no  con- 
versant wi'  your  Gibbon  ?  D'  ye  pretend  to  tell  me  ye  are 
ignorant  o'  such  men  as  Reenan  and  Strauss,  and  Bauerr 
and  Darrwin,  and  Thomas  Huxley?" 


172  THE  POST-GIRL 

"Estimable  people,  no  doubt,  Friend  Anderson,"  the 
Vicar  tells  him  imperturbably.  ".  .  .  Estimable  people." 

"Ah  doot  ye  've  read  a  wurrd  of  them,"  the  Doctor 
pronounces  bluntly. 

"So  much  the  better  for  me,  dear  brother.  So  much 
the  better  for  me." 

"Mon,"  says  the  Doctor,  exasperated  by  this  equani- 
mous  piety  that  all  his  own  exasperation  cannot  exasper- 
ate. ".  .  .  Ye  're  a  peetifu'  creature,  an'  ah  feel  shame 
tae  be  drinkin'  the  whiskey  o'  such  as  you.  Ye  go  inta 
chairrch  and  fill  a  lot  o'  puir  eegnorant  people  wi'  mair 
ignorance  than  they  had  without  ye,  teachin'  them  your 
fairy  tales  about  apples  and  sairrpints,  and  women  bein' 
made  oot  o'  man's  ribs  (did  one  ever  hearr  the  like!). 
Let  's  awa',  an'  mind  dinna  tek  inta  yer  heid  ta  fall  sick 
this  week,  or  it  '11  go  harrd  wi'  ye  if  ah  'm  called." 

"Ha!  We  can  die  but  once,  Brother  Anderson,"  the 
priest  tells  him  cheerfully.  "Even  all  the  science  and 
medical  skill  in  the  world  can't  kill  us  more  than  that." 

And  so  the  moments  of  these  four  pass,  and  the  har- 
vest hour  approaches,  inwardly  and  outwardly,  until  at 
last  .  .  .  one  day.  .  .  . 

But  in  the  meanwhile,  for  all  this  life  of  external  hap- 
piness that  Pam  shared  with  others,  she  was  serving  her 
silent  apprenticeship  in  the  house  of  the  little  old  lady. 
Even  when  he  was  furthest  from  her  the  schoolmaster 
clung  close  to  her  mind.  Each  time  she  laughed,  each 
time  she  looked  into  the  Spawer's  face,  each  time  she 
spoke  with  him  she  saw  inside  her — but  as  plainly  as 
though  she  had  been  looking  at  him  in  the  flesh— the  dark 
figure  of  the  schoolmaster  regarding  her  in  mute  reproof, 
with  hands  to  throat  and  beating  temples.  The  brightest 


THE  POST- GIRL  173 

moments  of  her  happiness,  indeed,  threw  this  shadow 
blackly  across  her  mind  like  the  gnomon  of  a  dial  when 
the  sun  shines  clearest.  Whenever  she  returned  now 
from  Father  Mostyn's  or  the  Spawer's,  he  was  always 
there  sitting  up  for  her.  Heaven  knows  why,  for  they 
had  little  enough  to  say  to  one  another.  He  never  pressed 
himself  upon  her,  but  by  leaving  himself  to  her  good  pity 
she  felt  the  claim  of  him  tenfold — lacking  the  power  to 
withhold  what,  perhaps,  on  demand,  she  might  have  sum- 
moned courage  to  deny.  Always  he  was  dumbly  set,  like 
those  canvas  collecting  sheets  on  Lifeboat  Saturdays,  for 
the  smallest  coppers  of  her  kindness.  If  she  had  not 
looked  into  the  larger  kitchen  before  bed  she  knew  he 
would  never  have  revealed  himself,  but  she  had  not  the 
heart  to  ignore  one  as  little  courageous  for  the  winning  of 
her  love  as  she  was  herself  for  its  defence.  At  times  the 
thought  of  what  the  future  had  in  store  for  her  troubled 
her  so  darkly  that  she  knew  not  how  best  to  shape  her 
present  moments.  Therefore,  in  place  of  shaping,  she 
merely  whittled — for  every  cut  this  way,  a  cut  that;  for 
every  chip  off  one  side,  a  chip  off  the  other;  so  that 
though  the  rough  wood  she  worked  on  wore  nearer  down 
to  her  fingers,  it  assumed  no  shape.  Through  fear  of  hav- 
ing been  too  cruel  one  day  she  was  constantly  over-kind 
the  next;  and  then,  what  she  had  lacked  to  charge  in 
cruelty  to  him  she  charged  extortionately  to  herself,  paid 
the  bills  in  silence,  and  said  never  another  word.  But 
though  she  could  meet  these  little  daily  expenditures, 
there  was  a  great  bill  slowly  mounting,  she  knew,  which 
should  of  a  surety  one  day  be  presented  to  her.  And  who 
should  pay  that  ?  Who  should  pay  that  ? 

While    the    music    is    at    Father    Mostyn's    and    the 


174  THE  POST- GIRL 

Spawer's  she  feels  to  a  certain  extent  in  harbor  against 
the  evil  day.  But  what  shall  happen  when  this  harbor  is 
denied  her,  and  for  fault  of  its  protection,  she  must  sail 
out  into  the  open,  unprotected  sea  ?  What  will  betide  her 
then?  What  is  life  coming  to? 

Alas!    She  is  soon  to  know. 

One  day.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XV 

ONE  day  the  Spawer  wakes  up  suddenly  to  conscious- 
ness, like  Barclay  in  the  hedge  bottom,  and  discov- 
ers, as  his  friend  Barclay  has  not  infrequently  discovered 
before  him,  that  he  is  occupying  a  strange  and  uncomfor- 
table position.  It  was  on  a  Tuesday  when  he  made  the 
final  effort  and  awoke  definitely  to  an  actual  sense  of  his 
location,  but  he  had  been  blinking  at  it  unseeingly  for 
some  while  before  that.  The  previous  morning  Father 
Mostyn  had  taken  leave  of  Ullbrig  for  his  few  days'  an- 
nual pike  fishing  with  the  Rev.  the  Hon.  Algernon 
Smythe  Trepinway  in  Norfolk,  and  this  sudden  break  in 
the  continuity  of  existence  had  served  as  an  alarum  to  the 
Spawer's  long  slumber.  He  woke  reluctantly,  but  with 
purpose,  took  his  morocco  red  bathing  drawers,  his  towel 
and  his  stick,  and  without  pausing  to  any  appreciable 
length  at  the  lane  gate,  plunged  across  the  two  fields 
towards  the  cliff. 

It  was  a  glorious,  steadfast  blue  day.  Not  a  cloud  as 
big  as  the  puff  of  my  lady's  powder-box  showed  itself  in 
any  corner  of  the  sky.  No  breezes,  even  of  the  softest, 
filtered  through  the  hot  hedges,  or  cooled  the  parched  tips 
of  the  burning  grass  blades.  Without  intermission  the 
sun  poured  his  golden  largess  down  upon  the  earth  from 
on  high,  so  forcefully  that  wherever  the  sunlight  rested, 
it  was  as  though  a  great  hot  hand  were  imposing  its 

175 


176  THE  POST-GIRL 

weight.  Yesterday  the  harvesting  had  set  in  with  a  ven- 
geance, and  now  the  whole  air  was  a-quiver  with  the  whir 
of  busy  blades,  whose  tireless  activity  seemed  the  very 
music  made  for  slumber,  and  lulled  all  other  moving 
things  towards  somnolent  repose. 

The  beach  lay  out  dazzling  in  its  unbroken  smoothness, 
like  white  satin,  and  deserted  quite.  Not  another  foot- 
step than  his  own  had  been,  or  in  all  probability  would  be, 
there  that  day  to  tread  destructive  perforating  tracks  over 
its  beautiful  surface  of  sand.  Up  and  down,  for  some- 
thing like  a  dozen  clear  miles  of  coast,  or  so  far  as  his 
eyes  could  show  him,  he  seemed,  like  a  second  Robinson 
Crusoe,  monarch  of  all  he  surveyed.  The  true  spirit  of 
the  solitude  of  the  lower  Yorkshire  coast  is  here.  There 
is  no  elaboration  to  the  picture ;  it  is  plain  and  lacking  de- 
tail. Of  foliage  by  the  sea  there  is  not  a  leaf,  excepting 
mere  divisional  hedges.  Fields  in  cultivation  and  out  of 
it  run  to  the  very  edge  of  the  cliff — a  sombre  cliff  of  soft, 
dark  earth,  stained  here  and  there  to  unprepossessing 
rusty  red,  with  trickling  chalybeate  streams,  and  showing 
terrible  toothmarks  of  the  voracious  sea,  that  feeds  its 
way  inland  on  this  part  of  the  coast  at  the  rate  of  a  yard 
a  year.  Looking  over  the  brink  of  it  you  can  discern  as 
many  as  half  a  dozen  paths,  in  various  stages  of  subsi- 
dence, that  less  than  that  number  of  years  ago  led  people 
along  the  cliff  top  as  the  path  you  stand  on  leads  them 
now.  In  other  places  you  may  see  huge  slices  of  grass 
land,  descending  like  great  steps  downwards  to  the  shore 
in  their  progress  towards  ultimate  devourance,  while 
warning  fissures  across  the  existing  pathway  show  where, 
perhaps  this  very  winter,  another  step  will  be  detached 
and  added  to  the  never-ending  stairway  of  demolition. 


THE  POST-GIRL  177 

In  a  sheltered  inlet,  where  the  sea  has  swept  up  a  thick 
white  carpet  of  bleached  sand,  the  Spawer  pitches  his 
bathing  camp  this  morning.  On  other  occasions  he  has 
trod  down  here  more  gladsomely ;  the  sea,  murmuring  its 
musical  cadences  upon  a  lonely  beach,  has  not  made 
music  to  him  in  vain.  But  for  him  to-day  the  sun  is  a 
little  dim,  the  sea  a  little  jaded.  The  inward  content  that 
stood  interpreter  between  his  soul  and  his  outward 
worldly  joyance  is  gone  from  him,  and  he  stands  some- 
how like  a  stranger  in  the  presence  of  strange  things. 
Here  on  the  seashore,  he  has  come  to  play  a  duet  more 
full  of  emotion,  and  more  crowded  with  difficulties  than 
any  he  knows  within  the  province  of  music,  for  it  is  a 
duet  with  his  own  soul. 

In  a  sense,  dimly  and  vaguely,  he  has  comprehended 
for  a  day  past,  a  couple  of  days  past,  at  the  most — Lord 
help  him — a  week,  that  this  duet  was  inevitable.  He  has 
been,  indeed,  since  these  several  days,  two  men.  The 
second  was  better  than  the  first,  but  not  much.  The  sec- 
ond of  them  held  the  strings  of  the  conscience  bag 
(slackly,  however)  and  rattled  it  ominously — though 
more  as  a  warning,  if  the  truth  were  told — to  give  the 
first  his  chance  of  escape.  In  the  heart  of  the  second  (if 
heart  it  could  be  called)  there  lingered  a  sneaking  sympa- 
thy with  the  delinquent  first,  as  for  a  younger  brother. 
And  now,  after  a  mutual  game  of  hide-and-seek,  when  the 
one  would  not  look  while  the  other  showed,  and  the  other 
would  not  show  while  the  other  was  looking,  through  a 
kind  of  desperate  conviction  that  something  must  be 
done,  they  had  sneaked  their  two  ways  down  to  the  beach 
this  morning,  prepared  (though  only  badly)  to  declare 

themselves  to  one  another,  and  come  to  some  understand- 
12 


i;8  THE  POST-GIRL 

ing,  though  whether  this  understanding  should  be  credit 
able  or  discreditable  to  both  or  to  either  was  yet  unset- 
tled. 

By  what  subtle,  imperceptible  paths  has  he  out  jour- 
neyed the  territory  of  that  great  happiness  which  seemed 
so  lately  his,  to  find  himself  all  suddenly  in  this  unpleas- 
ant no-man's  land  of  the  imagination  ?  By  subtle,  imper- 
ceptible paths  indeed.  By  the  touch  of  hands;  by  the 
gazing  of  eyes ;  by  the  inflection  of  voice.  Time  was,  in 
the  early  days  it  was,  when  he  could  look  on  Pam's  fas- 
cinating sprinkling  of  freckles  with  an  eye  as  purely  in- 
terested, and  as  purely  disinterested,  as  though  they  had 
been  the  specklings  of  a  wild  bird's  egg.  He  had  begun 
by  making  a  friend  of  her.  He  had  come  ultimately  to 
regard  her  as  a  sister,  to  whom  he  had  acted  in  all  good 
faith  the  strong,  reliant,  reliable,  affectionate,  unemo- 
tional elder  brother — who  could  have  kissed  her,  and 
thought  no  more  of  that  kiss,  nor  prepared  his  lips  for 
kisses  to  come.  And  now  .  .  .  what  was  he  going  to 
make  of  her  next?  ...  of  himself?  Who  but  a  brother 
can  act  the  brother?  Who  but  a  father— even  though  he 
doddle  benevolently  on  his  legs  and  have  respectable 
white  hairs— can  be  sure  of  acting  the  father  to  any 
daughter  not  his  own?  What  are  the  sexes  but  phos- 
phorus and  sandpaper  for  the  kindling  of  love's  emotion? 
Already  the  phosphorus  had  not  wanted  signs  of  impend- 
ing ignition.  Just  a  very  little  more  rubbing  of  this 
friendly  intercourse— a  day  or  two  ...  a  week  at  most 
.  .  .  and  the  flame  would  burst  out  for  them  both  to  see. 
So  here  let  him  settle  it.  What  was  he  going  to  do  ? 

He  did  not  know  what  he  was  going  to  do.  .  .  .  There 
were  complications. 


THE  POST-GIRL  179 

Complications  of  his  own  allowing,  remember.  Why 
had  he  not  let  it  be  plainly  understood — as  soon  as  his  re- 
lations with  this  girl  grew — that  he  was  a  man  with  a 
claim  upon  him? 

Ah!    If  only  he  had. 

Why  had  n't  he?  Had  he  shirked  it?  If  he  had 
shirked  it,  then  he  was  indeed  guilty. 

H^  did  not  think  he  had  shirked  it  ...  at  least,  with 
intention. 

But  the  idea  had  come  to  him.  Come  to  him  more  than 
or.ce.  Did  he  not  on  one  occasion  at  Hesketh's  corner 
make  the  resolve  to  tell  the  girl  that  he  was  going  to  be 
married  ? 

Yes. 

Then  why  did  n't  he  ? 

Because  he  could  think  of  no  expression  at  the  time  to 
relieve  the  news  of  a  certain  primitive  brutality — a  blunt 
statement  quite  out  of  accord  with  the  moment  and  the 
mood. 

Thought  must  always  be  in  some  measure  of  accord 
with  the  moment  and  the  mood.  You  could  not  say,  for 
instance :  "Good  morning.  What  a  beautiful  day.  I  am 
going  to  be  married." 

But  he  had  thought  the  same  thought  subsequently. 

True. 

Why  had  he  not  acted  on  it? 

Partly  for  the  same  reason.  And  then  again  ...  it 
seemed  so  easy  in  thought  and  so  difficult  in  effect.  He 
was  frightened  he  might  bungle  it,  and  make  it  sound  like 
an  unpalatable  caution  to  the  girl.  "Don't  set  your  aspi- 
rations upon  me.  I  warn  you.  I  am  not  for  you." 
Faugh  !  The  idea — in  this  girl's  case — was  revolting. 


i8o  THE  POST-GIRL 

Because,  therefore,  of  a  little  unpleasantness  on  ac- 
count, he  had  run  up  a  long  score— prepared  to  declare 
himself  bankrupt  when  occasion  arose,  and  involve  the 
girl  in  his  own  insolvency.  Was  that  it? 

He  had  certainly  avoided  anything  that  might  be  odi- 
ous to  the  girl  ...  or  painful  to  her  feelings— but  he 
had  had  no  ideas  of  involving  her.  God  forbid ! 

And  the  other?  The  Absent  One?  What  had  been 
his  feelings  towards  her?  Had  he  thought  his  conduct 
such  as  to  merit  her  confidence  in  him  ? 

He  had  not  thought  it  undeserving  of  her  confidence. 
Their  relations  were  of  long  standing.  Before  now  he 
had  kissed  some  mutual  girl  friends  in  her  presence.  She 
had  smiled. 

Supposing  he  had  kissed  them  in  her  absence  .  .  .  and 
she  had  come  subsequently  to  hear  of  it?  Would  she 
have  smiled  ?  Of  course  he  had  told  her  in  his  letters  all 
about  the  post-girl — and  their  present  relations? 

He  had  told  her  the  postman  was  a  girl. 

Exactly.    But  what  sort  of  a  girl. 

Was  there  more  than  one  sort  of  a  girl?  A  girl,  it 
seemed  to  him,  was  a  girl  all  the  world  over.  The  defin- 
ition was  plain  enough. 

Had  he  said  she  was  a  pretty  girl  ? 

Why  should  he  have  said  that? 

Why  should  he  have  avoided  it  ? 

He  had  n't  avoided  it.  It  was  only  one  of  the  things  he 
had  n't  ...  specified.  Why  should  he  specify  a  "pretty 
girl"  any  more  than  he  should  have  specified  an  "ugly 
one"  ?  Besides  .  .  .  prettiness  was  all  abstract,  and  rela 
tive,  and  indefinable.  When  we  called  a  thing  pretty  we 
only  meant  that  it  excited  that  particular  degree  of  emo- 


THE  POST-GIRL  181 

tion  in  our  own  mind.  Other  people  might  decide  upon 
it  as  ugly. 

Exactly.  Had  he,  by  any  chance,  spoken  of  Cliff 
Wrangham  as  a  delightful  corner  of  the  world's  end? 

He  believed  he  had. 

And  he  had  mentioned  Father  Mostyn? 

Certainly.     He  had  alluded  to  him. 

In  affectionate  and  laudatory  terms? 

He  did  n't  know  about  affectionate  and  laudatory 
terms.  Perhaps  he  had.  He  had  spoken  of  him  as  he 
had  found  him.  Father  Mostyn  had  always  been  kind. 
In  writing  he  had  no  doubt  alluded  to  that  kindness. 

More  than  once? 

Doubtless  more  than  once.  Kindness  was  not  such  a 
common  quality  that  it  would  not  bear  a  little  repetition. 

He  had  mentioned  the  Doctor. 

Some  of  him.  His  stockings,  he  believed,  and  his 
strange  happiness  in  speaking  the  truth. 

How  often  had  he  met  the  Doctor? 

Perhaps  half  a  dozen  times. 

And  the  post-girl? 

Let  him  see.  .  .  . 

Exactly.  He  could  n't  count  the  number.  He  had 
mentioned  with  some  small  degree  of  detail  a  man  who 
was  but  a  cypher  in  his  visit,  and  he  had  overlooked  al- 
together the  figure  which  was  its  numerator,  so  to  speak. 

Suppose  he  had  put  the  case,  as  it  stood,  before  a  ref- 
eree, chosen  from  the  Sons  of  the  World.  Suppose  he  'd 
said,  for  instance :  There  was  a  fellow  once,  engaged  to  a 
girl.  The  girl  went  with  a  maiden  aunt  by  marriage  to 
Switzerland  for  the  aunt's  health.  It  was  arranged  that 
while  they  were  there  the  fellow  was  to  go  into  obscurity 


182  THE  POST-GIRL 

by  the  sea-coast  and  complete  some  great  compositional 
work  he  had  the  vanity  to  think  he  could  achieve,  and 
that,  after  the  girl's  return,  either  towards  the  end  of  No- 
vember or  the  early  part  of  January,  these  two  were  to 
be  married.  But  during  this  obscurity  the  fellow  came 
upon  an  altogether  unusual  sample  of  a  post-girl.  She 
was  supposed  to  be  derived  from  a  family  of  importance ; 
had  all  the  inherited  gifts  of  a  lady ;  the  low,  musically- 
balanced  voice ;  the  symmetrical,  graceful  figure  and  car- 
riage; beautiful  teeth  and  a  smile  like  dawn.  Suppose 
everything  about  the  girl  appealed  to  this  fellow  tremen- 
dously. Suppose  they  became  .  .  .  well,  call  it  friends. 
Suppose  he  taught  her  music  and  French,  and  met  her  as 
often  as  possible.  Suppose  all  his  moments  were  occu- 
pied in  thinking  of  her.  Suppose  the  life  he  had  left  and 
the  life  (presumably)  he  was  going  back  to  were  receded 
so  far  away  that  he  could  scarcely  distinguish  them,  or 
his  obligations  to  them.  Suppose  that  the  girl  was  to  all 
intents  and  purposes  his  little  cosmos,  out  of  which  he  in- 
dited letters  to  the  Other  Girl— letters  that  made  no  men- 
tion of  the  existing  state  of  things.  Suppose,  now,  he 
laid  this  case,  just  as  it  stood,  before  any  man  of  the 
world.  What,  did  he  imagine,  would  that  man  of  the 
world  decide  upon  him?  What  would  he  think  of  him? 

Another  man  of  the  world,  perhaps. 

Probably  so.  And  suppose  this  other  girl  had  been  his 
sister,  and  he  had  been  some  other  man,  and  the  circum- 
stances were  as  they  were,  and  some  enlightened  friend 
had  informed  him  of  them.  Well? 

On  the  face  of  it,  he  might  be  tempted  to  step  in  and 
send  the  fellow  to  the  devil. 

And  in  his  own  case  ? 


THE  POST-GIRL  183 

In  his  own  case?  Summarising  like  that,  without  any 
partiality,  but  condensed  into  a  cold-blooded  abstraction, 
he  supposed  he  might  seem  deserving  of  being  sent  to  the 
devil,  too— if  he  were  not  there  already.  Every  case 
looked  black  when  it  was  formularised.  The  facts  had  ac- 
cumulated without  his  perceiving  them.  It  was  easy  now 
to  go  and  roll  them  up  like  an  increasing  snowball  of  ac- 
cusation against  him,  but  at  the  time  they  had  seemed 
slight  enough.  When  he  had  scribbled  off  the  letters  it 
had  been  with  a  consciousness  of  the  shuffle,  but  with  the 
inward  resolve,  clearly  defined,  to  atone  for  it  by  a  longer 
letter  next  day,  or  some  other  day. 

And  he  had  done  so? 

Unfortunately,  no.  Fate,  there  again,  had  seemed 
against  him.  But  the  intention  had  not  been  wanting — 
it  was  the  flesh  only  that  had  been  a  little  weak. 

In  the  light  of  present  understanding,  then,  if  by  the 
mere  wish  he  could  blot  out  not  only  the  remembrance  of 
this  weakness  but  the  actuality  of  it,  he  would  wish  the 
wish? 

No  reply. 

Eh  ?    He  would  wish  the  wish  at  once — was  n't  that  so  ? 

Still  no  reply. 

Perhaps  he  had  n't  quite  understood.  Put  it  another 
way.  Suppose,  since  the  doings  of  these  latter  days  were 
not  entirely  creditable  to  him,  when  viewed  dispassion- 
ately, was  he  prepared  to  wish  that  he  had  never  come  to 
Cliff  Wrangham? 

He  could  n't  honestly  wish  that.  It  was  n't  fair  to 
Cliff  Wrangham  or  the  Dixons.  He  'd  had  a  very  happy 
time  there  and  done  good  work.  Cliff  Wrangham  was  n't 
to  blame. 


184  THE  POST-GIRL 

Since  Cliff  Wrangham  was  n't  to  blame,  then,  would 
ne  be  prepared  to  wish  that  he  had  never  come  across  the 
post-girl  ? 

He  'd  have  been  bound  to  come  across  her. 

Not  if,  for  instance,  she  'd  been  ill,  and  somebody  else 
had  brought  the  letters. 

He  would  n't  wish  anybody  ill  for  the  mere  sake  of 
saving  his  conscience. 

Supposing  she  had  been  away,  then  ? 

Away  where? 

Anywhere. 

But  she  had  n't  been  away,  and  so  there  was  an  end 
of  it.  He  was  n't  dealing  with  what  might  have  been,  but 
what  was. 

And  what  was? 

He  did  n't  know.  He  only  knew  that  he  would  n't  wish 
his  worst  enemy  to  be  on  the  rack  as  he  'd  been  on  it  all 
last  night,  and  this  morning.  He  had  n't  slept  a  wink. 

Why  had  n't  he  slept  ? 

Because  he  could  n't  sleep. 

But  surely  that  was  funny. 

It  was  n't  funny  at  all.    It  was  hell. 

How  could  that  be?  If  he  found  now  that  he  'd  been 
taking  a  wrong  moral  turn,  all  he  had  to  do  was  to  turn 
back.  His  way  was  easy. 

Was  it? 

It  was  .  .  .  if  he  were  sorry  he  'd  gone  wrong.  Was 
he  sorry  that  he  'd  gone  wrong  ? 

Of  course  he  was  sorry.  The  difficulty  was  he  'd  gone 
such  a  deuce  of  a  long  way  wrong. 

Ah !    Longer,  perhaps,  than  he  'd  said. 

Not  longer  than  he  'd  said,  but  quite  long  enough, 


THE  POST-GIRL  185 

without  saying  a  word.  To  turn  all  the  way  back,  at  this 
stage  of  the  proceedings — with  explanation  or  without — 
was  a  desperately  hard  thing  to  do. 

If  duty  compelled  it,  nevertheless? 

Why  should  duty  compel  him  to  do  anything  so  un- 
pleasant ? 

But  surely  that  was  a  strange  way  to  speak  of  a  duty 
which  merely  implied  his  obligation  to  the  Other  Girl. 
Presumably,  as  things  stood,  he  loved  her. 

Presumably  he  did. 

He  had  come  to  love  her  of  his  own  free  will  ?  It  was 
not  a  case  where  he  had  been  "rushed"  ?  There  was  no 
solicitous  mother  or  obliging  sister  in  the  case? 

None  at  all.  Only  he  had  had  larger  opportunity  to 
cultivate  her  acquaintance  than  in  the  general  run  of 
affairs.  She  was  a  distant  connection  of  his  by  a  remote 
marriage,  who,  in  view  of  her  extreme  personal  connec- 
tion with  the  family,  had  generally  ranked  as  a  cousin.  In 
the  days  when  he  had  had  prospects  from  his  uncle  they 
were  constantly  thrown  together,  and  it  was  in  those  days 
that  he  engaged  himself.  All  the  family  looked  with  fa- 
vor upon  the  match,  and  even  encouraged  it.  Then  this 
wretched  old  uncle  took  it  suddenly  into  his  head  to  be 
actively  interested  in  the  nephew's  welfare.  Wanted  him 
to  throw  music  to  the  winds  as  being  unworthy  of  his 
high  prospects,  and  went  the  length  of  telling  him  in  a 
letter  of  six  words  or  so  to  choose  between  music  and  the 
mammon  of  unrighteousness.  Fool,  perhaps,  that  he 
was,  he  chose  for  music.  All  his  family  rounded  on  him 
at  once — or  such  family  as  it  was ;  thank  God,  there 
was  n't  much  of  it — and  wrote  abject  letters  to  the  mam- 
mon, telling  him  how  headstrong  poor  dear  Maurice  was, 


186  THE  POST-GIRL 

and  how  darling  uncle  must  please  give  him  time,  and  not 
be  too  severe  upon  his  wicked  indiscretion.  Maurice, 
dear  misguided  boy,  loved  darling  uncle  very  dearly,  and 
would  be  shocked  one  day  when  he  came  to  his  senses, 
and  saw  how  deeply  he  had  grieved  him. 

And  the  Other  Girl?  Did  she  share  the  family  re- 
proaches ? 

On  the  contrary,  she  said  he  had  acted  nobly.  He  of- 
fered her  her  freedom,  of  course,  as  soon  as  he  relin- 
quished the  mammon,  but  she  would  not  accept  it. 

Had  she  said  to  him,  for  instance:  "Deai  Maurice, 
there  have  been  times  when  I  have  been  troubled  to  know 
which  of  you  I  loved ;  you  or  your  uncle's  money.  And 
now  that  the  horrid  money  's  gone,  I  think  it  's  you." 

Yes,  she  had  said  that. 

Did  he  tell  her  that  it  was  n't  for  beggars  to  be  choos- 
ers, and  that  if  she  cared  to  have  a  musical  pauper  she 
could  have  him,  and  there  'd  be  nothing  to  pay  but  his 
bills? 

He  believed  he  had  made  some  witty  allusion  to  that 
effect. 

What  did  he  call  pauperdom  ? 

He  called  two  or  three  hundred  a  year  pauperdom. 
With  the  assistance  of  a  few  pot-boiling  songs  under 
somebody  else's  name,  including,  to  his  shame  be  it  said, 
a  percentage  of  semi-sacred  effusions  with  angels  flutter- 
ing in  the  treble,  and  organ  obligate,  he  generally  man- 
aged to  supplement  this.  He  also  wrote  a  few  elementary 
teaching  pieces  for  a  certain  educational  firm,  under  the 
reassuring  title  of  Ivan  Fedor  Ivanowitch,  which  re- 
turned him  a  pittance.  There  was  no  demand  for  his  two 
symphonies  or  his  orchestral  suite  or  his  first  piano  con- 


THE  POST-GIRL  187 

certo  in  fa  diese.  That  's  why  he  was  writing  another. 
Altogether,  taking  one  thing  with  another,  his  income 
might  be  set  down — except  to  the  Inland  Revenue — at 
about  three  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a  year.  A  man 
could  n't  be  much  poorer  than  that,  and  talk,  Heaven  help 
him,  of  marriage. 

And  the  Other  Girl?    Had  she  expectations  at  all? 

He  hoped  not,  for  her  own  peace  of  mind.  She  had 
this  aunt  by  marriage.  Perhaps  she  might  be  able  to  call 
a  couple  of  hundred  pounds  per  annum  her  own  some 
day.  But  it  would  n't  be  much  more. 

And  how  long  had  she  been  engaged  to  him? 

Oh,  he  could  n't  exactly  say.  Six  or  seven  years.  It 
had  been  an  early  and  a  lingering  engagement. 

Taking  his  statements  into  admission,  one  thing  seemed 
very  clear.  He  was  under  a  strong  moral  obligation  to 
the  Other  Girl. 

He  had  never  denied  it. 

Perhaps  not,  but  his  actions — judged  superficially,  of 
course — had  shown  a  large  tendency  to  overlook  this  ob- 
ligation. However,  let  the  past  bury  the  past.  He  saw 
now  the  right  way,  and  where  he  had  strayed  from  it. 
Henceforth,  since  his  sole  desire  was  to  purge  his  spirit 
of  its  temporary  faithlessness,  and  gain  grace  to  win 
back  his  claim  to  the  Other  Girl's  confidence,  henceforth 
his  path  lay  clear. 

Where? 

Where  ?    Surely  he  had  no  necessity  to  ask  that  ? 

On  the  contrary,  he  did  ask  that. 

But  there  could  be  no  doubt  in  his  mind.  Any  way  that 
did  not  lead  him  back  into  the  old  temptation  was  the 
right  way. 


1 88  THE  POST- GIRL 

If  coming  across  the  post-girl  was  temptation,  there 
was  no  way  in  this  district  that  did  lead  the  right  way. 

Then  he  must  depart  to  where  there  was. 

Leave  Cliff  Wrangham  altogether? 

Precisely. 

Why  should  he  leave  Cliff  Wrangham— that  is,  before 
the  Other  One  returned?  Was  he  an  infant  that  he 
must  be  packed  off  into  the  corner  in  disgrace,  because  he 
could  n't  be  trusted? 

He  had  proved  himself  an  infant  by  the  mere  fact  that 
he  was  no  longer  to  be  trusted.  In  other  words,  he  had 
broken  his  trust. 

He  denied  it.    He  'd  broken  nothing. 

When  a  nursemaid,  who  's  been  warned,  lets  a 
child.  .  .  . 

"Oh,  damn  the  nursemaid  and  the  child,  too !  Serve  it 
jolly  right  if  she  did.  He  was  n't  a  nursemaid. 

Perhaps  not.  Perhaps  he  was  just  a  low,  common 
blackguard,  after  all. 

Perhaps  he  was. 


HE  had  his  bath,  but  the  salt  water  was  all  unfriendly, 
and  there  was  no  stimulus  in  its  waves.  It  seemed  to 
have  deserted  him  at  this  hour  of  dark  temptation.  In 
ceaseless  tussle  the  two  of  him  returned  along  the  sands 
and  slowly  back  to  Dixon's.  Out  of  the  drifting  current 
of  reasonings  two  things  at  least  seemed  clear.  The  con- 
science-bearer was  dimly  arguing  for  departure ;  the 
shuffling  second  self,  that  had  been  actively  dodging  in- 
vestigation all  this  while,  was  trying  to  invent  counter- 
arguments for  delay. 


THE  POST- GIRL  189 

The  very  life  he  was  leading  had  become  dear  to  him. 
He  had  lost  slowly  the  desire  to  regain  touch  with  the 
big  centres  of  artistic  activity,  and  seemed  to  be  living 
somehow  a  purer  life,  in  which  he  worked  solely  (or  at 
least,  thought  so)  for  Art's  own  sake.  The  ultimate  suc- 
cess of  this  concerto  troubled  him  little.  Before,  he  had 
been  building  much  on  it,  as  the  most  promise ful  fruit  of 
his  muse.  Now,  if  it  were  scouted,  if  he  and  all  his  la- 
bors were  scouted,  there  was  the  blessed  sense  of  being 
able  to  return  here  for  solace  and  shelter.  The  Dixons 
would  be  sorry  to  lose  him,  he  felt  sure;  glad  to  have 
him  back.  The  Vicarage  door  would  open  as  soon  as  his 
figure  came  on  to  the  vicarial  territory  in  front  of  the 
iron  rails;  the  bland,  beneficent  hand  of  his  Reverence 
would  receive  him,  like  the  lost  lamb  gathered  into  the 
fold.  God  bless  the  Vicarage!  His  heart  warmed,  and 
his  eye — a  little  emotionalised,  it  might  be,  by  the  crisis 
he  was  passing  through — moistened  as  he  thought  upon 
that  smallpox-blistered  door,  and  the  happiness  that  had 
been  behind  it.  And  last  of  all  ...  there  was  Pam. 
What  a  soft  and  soothing  cataplasm  she  was  for  all  the 
soul's  inflammations;  for  all  the  chafing  irritation  of 
spirit  brought  about  by  contact  with  a  rough  world.  Her 
breath  was  balm,  and  her  voice  like  a  soft  south  wind 
blowing  through  the  strings  of  a  lute.  All  her  freckles 
would  cry  aloud  in  welcome ;  her  lips  would  disclose  the 
pure,  milky  greeting  of  those  white  teeth;  her  hands — 
that  he  had,  with  amusement  and  exalted  joy,  watched 
struggling  in  their  dear,  feminine  tirelessness  with  the 
contrary  humors  of  Father  Mostyn's  keys — he  knew  what 
those  hands  would  do  when  she  heard  of  his  return.  They 
would  clasp  themselves  and  go  beneath  her  chin.  He  had 


190  THE  POST-GIRL 

not  noticed  her  for  nothing.  And  then  his  mind  went  on 
to  the  shortening  of  the  days ;  to  the  harvest  gathered ;  to 
the  crisp  September;  to  the  autumn,  with  its  long,  cosy 
evenings  in  the  Vicar's  room,  and  the  music ;  to  the  win- 
ter; to  Christmas;  to  the  meetings;  to  the  happiness;  to 
the  sea.  .  .  . 

And  by  Christmas  .  .  .  perhaps  ...  he  would  be 
married. 

Married ! 

Married  and  far  away.  All  these  days  would  be  but  a 
remembrance.  Father  Mostyn  and  Pamela  something 
less,  and  something  infinitely  more,  than  the  figments  of  a 
dream.  He  would  be  building  up  a  new  life  for  himself; 
a  new  habitation  for  his  soul  to  live  in,  out  of  new  inter- 
ests, out  of  new  ambitions  (if  he  had  any),  out  of  new 
environments. 

Last  of  all,  out  of  the  mass  of  arguments  and  sub- 
arguments,  questions  and  cross-questions,  considerations 
and  counter-considerations,  in  one  of  those  sudden  lucid 
heavenly  flashes  of  righteousness  with  which  the  soul's 
lightning  has  power  to  pierce,  at  irregular  and  unexpected 
intervals,  the  cloud  of  doubt,  he  received  the  inspiration 
of  resolve.  Departure,  the  Spawer  decided,  was  the  only 
thing  to  save  him.  The  necessity  was  cruel,  no  doubt — 
to  the  Ullbrig  girl,  perhaps,  as  well  as  himself — but  in  the 
momentary  lucidity  of  soul  he  had  caught  the  glimpse  of 
this  as  his  sole  honorable  path,  and  he  elected  now  to 
pursue  it.  To  make  the  requisite  retractions  and  yet  stay 
on  was  out  of  the  question.  He  could  not  bring  himself 
to  exercise  those  despicable  economies  of  affection— pal- 
pable retrenchments  even— in  his  friendship  with  the  girl, 
lacking  which,  to  remain  in  Ullbrig  was  not  to  stand  still 


THE  POST-GIRL  191 

but  to  advance.  No  amount  of  mere  passive  rectitude 
could  check  the  evolution  of  facts  and  circumstances. 
The  world  did  not  stand  still  because  one  chastened  spirit 
resolved  to  hold  back  from  the  general  march  of  iniquity. 
There  was  nothing  for  it.  He  would  go. 

Then  imagination,  intoxicated  with  the  virtuous  bitter 
draught  he  had  drained,  took  wild  flight  into  the  future. 
He  was  going,  truly,  but  not  for  long.  Pam  and  this  wife 
of  his  that  was  to  be  should  become  as  sisters.  He  pic- 
tured Pam's  coming  to  visit  them.  Long,  glorious  visits 
they  should  be.  And  he  and  Beatrice  should  return  to 
Cliff  Wrangham.  They  would  make  Cliff  Wrangham 
their  summer  residence,  their  winter  residence,  their  life- 
long residence.  Exaltation  carried  him  to  the  pitch  of 
bigamy  even.  In  his  wild  desire  to  squeeze  the  last  drop 
of  happiness  from  these  deadly  sweet  berries  of  fancy  he 
was  deaf  to  the  voice  of  reason.  He  scarcely  perceived 
whether  it  was  Pam  or  the  absent  one  that  figured,  in  this 
glorified  vision,  as  his  wedded  wife.  At  times,  for  all  the 
power  he  possessed  to  discriminate,  it  might  have  been 
both.  Or  perhaps,  with  fine  prophetic  oversight  of 
worldly  institutions,  he  visioned  a  sublime  state  of  pla- 
tonic  bliss  in  which  was  neither  marrying  nor  giving  in 
marriage.  For  extreme  righteousness  knows  nothing  of 
reason,  nor  does  it  argue.  Arguments  are  but  the  beat- 
ings of  its  wings  to  gain  impetus  for  flight,  but  the  flight, 
once  attained,  transcends  all  logic.  The  sublime  picture 
of  married  felicity  that  the  Spawer  created  would  have 
been  the  scandal  of  any  decent,  respectably  constituted 
community.  Had  there  been  a  dozen  Pams,  indeed,  he 
would  have  included  them  all  in  this  spiritual  harem,  and 
yet— repugnant  as  this  indiscriminate  scheme  of  domestic 


192  THE  POST-GIRL 

association  might  appear  to  the  many— there  was  no 
taint  of  earthly  impurity  in  his  conception  of  it. 

Fortified  with  this  blest  vision  of  a  paradise  as  reward 
for  the  pains  of  present  righteousness,  he  swallowed  a 
hasty  and  a  tasteless  meal,  and  set  off  without  further 
thought  or  delay— lest  the  strength  of  resolve  might  in 
any  way  leak  from  him  before  his  purpose  was  accom- 
plished—down the  Ullbrig  road.  For  he  knew  that  his 
composure  was  bearing  a  tremendous  burden  on  its  back, 
and  he  feared,  if  he  retarded  too  long,  it  might  break 
down,  when  ultimately  he  met  the  girl,  into  some  stam- 
mering, faulty,  broken-backed,  weak-kneed,  incomplete 
accomplishment  of  his  mission.  If  possible,  he  wanted  to 
drop  across  her  as  though  by  pure  accident.  He  did  n't 
want  her  to  detect  any  traces  of  labored  premeditation  in 
what  he  had  to  tell.  He  held  the  manner  of  the  news- 
breaking  roughly  formulated  in  his  mind,  but  he  was 
anxious  lest  she  might  discern,  through  any  flaw  in  the 
outer  agreement  of  his  smiles  (just  sufficiently  tinged 
with  regret,  he  told  himself,  to  be  in  keeping  with  the 
subject  of  departure,  but  no  more),  the  horrible  ma- 
chinery, driven  by  a  thousand  heart-power,  clanking 
away  inside  him,  and  manufacturing  this  leave-taking  to 
pattern,  like  rolled  steel. 

He  was  so  little  sure  of  his  capacity  to  execute  his  own 
purpose  that,  through  mere  distrust  of  doing  what  he 
wanted  to  do,  he  was  almost  ready  to  give  the  project  up 
and  declare  himself  beaten  before  the  battle.  And  all  the 
while  he  walked  onward  he  began  to  accumulate  doubts 
respecting  the  undertaking  of  such  a  delicate  operation 
beneath  the  searching  light  of  day.  He  had  one  revela- 
tion of  the  girl's  great  eyes  fixed  solemnly  upon  his  lips, 


THE  POST-GIRL  193 

and  watching  him  as  he  wallowed  in  his  embarrassment, 
and  his  soul  flinched.  For  a  moment  he  had  desperate- 
thoughts  of  return.  Then  he  sat,  under  the  white  flag  of 
truce,  on  a  rail.  Then  he  moved  slowly  onward  again, 
with  fixed  eyes  on  Ullbrig,  praying  he  might  miss  the 
girl.  And  with  this  prayer  almost  moving  his  lips,  at 
Hesketh's  corner  he  met  her. 


u 


CHAPTER  XVI 

SHE  wore  a  great  hat  of  coarse  Zulu  straw,  trimmed 
with  white  muslin  and  scarlet  poppies,  and  a  pale 
cream  muslin  dress,  beneath  whose  hem  her  neat  shoes 
and  trim,  black  ankles  showed  themselves  so  demurely, 
like  sleek  twin  witches  of  seductive  enchantment.  In  her 
left  hand  she  carried  a  snowy-topped  basket  emblematic 
of  Faith,  Hope  and  Charity — particularly  this  last — while 
the  thumb  of  her  cotton-gloved  right  hand  was  tucked,  at 
the  time  of  their  recognition,  into  a  green  crocodile  leather 
belt.  She  was  just  passing  the  corner,  indeed,  as  she 
caught  sight  of  the  Spawer,  and  had  to  fall  back  on  her 
heel  to  verify  the  impression ;  then  she  stood  waiting  for 
him,  swinging  the  basket  in  front  of  her  skirt  with  both 
hands,  and  showing  the  glad  smile  for  a  welcome  and  un- 
expected meeting.  All  the  gloomy  necessitie..  of  the  en- 
counter were  packed  up  and  stowed  away  at  the  back  of 
the  Spawer's  being  with  the  first  slight  shock  of  realisa- 
tion. Almost  spontaneously  he  discarded  his  reflections 
as  though  they  had  been  impersonal  and  bearing  no  ref- 
erence to  the  girl  before  him,  and  advanced  upon  her 
with  the  sunny  face  that  seemed  never  to  have  known  the 
clouds  of  disquietude. 

"How  funny,"  said  Pam  simply,  as  he  came  near. 
"...  I  was  just  thinking  about  you." 

"I  can  see  you  were,"  he  laughed. 


THE  POST- GIRL  195 

"Can  you?"  asked  Pam,  smiling,  but  a  shade  incred- 
ulous. 

"By  your  ears,"  he  told  her. 

Pam  put  her  fingers  to  them. 

"It  is  the  sun,"  she  said,  nipping  a  little  crimson  lobe 
between  cool  white-cottoned  fingers.  "Yours  burn  too. 
Were  you  thinking  about  me  ?" 

"Perhaps." 

"Were  you?    What  were  you  thinking?" 

"Tell  me  first  what  you  were  thinking  about  me  ?" 

"I  was  thinking  whether  I  should  see  you  if  I  looked 
up  the  Cliff  Wrangham  road.  But  I  never  thought  I 
should.  And  you  ?" 

"I  was  thinking  the  same  thing." 

"Were  you  really  ?  Did  you  want  to  see  me  .  .  .  about 
anything  ?" 

It  was  the  Spawer's  opportunity  to  say  what  he  had 
come  to  say,  but  like  a  faint-hearted  jumper,  feeling  he 
had  not  bite  enough  for  his  purpose,  he  burked  the 
hurdle. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  wanted  to  see  you  .  .  .  about 
anything,"  he  answered,  covering  up  his  momentary 
hesitation  with  a  smile,  "...  but  I  was  perfectly  agree- 
able to  see  you  about  nothing  at  all." 

"Perhaps  you  're  coming  to  the  post  ?"  Pam  hazarded. 

"Nothing  so  reputable,"  said  he.  "Fact  is,  I  'm  afraid 
I  Ve  broken  loose  to-day.  I  'm  on  the  laze." 

"You  lazy!"  laughed  Pam,  in  incredulous  amazement. 

"Oh,  horribly  lazy,  dear  girl,"  he  said.  "If  you  don't 
know  that  you  don't  know  me.  It  comes  on  at  periods. 
I  can't  yet  decide  whether  my  hard  work  is  sheer  activity 
of  a  guilty  conscience,  or  my  laziness  is  the  collapse  of  a 


196  THE  POST-GIRL 

conscience  too  highly  taxed,  but  the  one  follows  the  other 
as  night  follows  day.  I  've  not  done  a  stroke  of  work 
since  getting  up.  This  morning  I  washed  myself  and 
bathed— you  '11  say  that 's  a  good  work  done.  This  after- 
noon I  determined  to  stroll  inland  and  see  if  there  was 
anybody  disposed  to  take  pity  on  my  sad  idleness.  What 
a  pretty  basket !" 

Pam  held  it  up  for  his  inspection. 

"May  I  lift  the  cover?" 

Pam  nodded  and  laughed,  showing  all  her  white,  small 
teeth  in  assent. 

"Bottles,"  said  he,  taking  a  peep  under  the  snowy  serv- 
iette. "We  're  well  met.  Which  way  are  you  going  ?" 

"I  'm  going  to  Shippus,"  said  Pam,  with  a  little  wistful 
accent  on  the  "I  'm,"  expressive  of  solitude. 

"The  very  thing,"  said  the  Spawer.  "And  we  won't 
touch  them  till  we  get  there.  Not  a  drop.  Will  you  take 
me  with  you  ?" 

"Will  you  go  with  me?"  said  Pam,  a  light  of  desire 
suddenly  dawning  in  her  eyes  at  his  half -bantering  sug- 
gestion. 

"If  you  '11  have  me." 

"I  '11  have  you.  But  perhaps  you  would  n't  care  .  .  . 
it 's  a  sick  call." 

"I  don't  care  what  it  is,"  said  the  Spawer,  "so  long  as 
it  's  nothing  catching.  Tell  me  it  's  not  smallpox  and 
I  'm  with  you." 

"Oh,  it  is  n't  smallpox,"  Pam  reassured  him.  "It  's 
only  poor  old  Mr.  Smethurst." 

"Come,"  said  the  Spawer,  relieved,  "that  does  n't 
sound  so  alarming.  I  '11  risk  it.  And  are  the  bottles  his 
or  ours  ?" 


THE  POST- GIRL  197 

"His,"  said  Pam,  as  the  Spawer  disengaged  her  of 
them,  and  they  commenced  to  walk  forward  together. 
"Poor  old  gentleman.  There  's  a  lemon  jelly  and  a  bottle 
of  port  and  a  bottle  of  whiskey.  Those  are  from  Father 
Mostyn — the  very  same  that  he  drinks  himself."  Her 
eyes  kindled  luminously  at  the  mention.  "Is  n't  it  good 
of  him?  Nobody  knows  but  me  what  lots  of  things  he 
gives  away  .  .  .  and  what  lots  of  things  he  does  for 
people.  He  'd  do  anything  for  anybody.  They  don't 
understand  him  in  Ullbrig  a  bit.  I  did  n't  always,  but  I 
do  now.  They  talk  about  his  house,  and  say  it  wants 
painting.  And  of  course  it  does.  And  they  say  he  's  a 
Roman  Catholic,  and  gets  paid  by  the  Pope  for  every  con- 
version he  makes ;  but  that  's  not  true.  He  's  nothing  at 
all  to  do  with  the  Pope.  And  then  they  laugh  at  him  be- 
cause he  goes  down  on  his  knees  in  church,  but  as  he  said 
one  day  to  Mr.  Stevens  (Sheppardman)  :  'You  touch 
your  hat  to  me  because  I  'm  his  reverence  the  vicar,  but 
you  're  too  proud  to  bow  to  the  Lord  Jesus.'  And  it  's 
not  a  matter  of  what  he  does  in  church.  They  ought  n't 
to  go  by  that — and  they  can't  truthfully,  because  they  're 
never  there  to  see.  It 's  what  he  does  in  Ullbrig.  If  any- 
body 's  ill,  it  's  always  him  they  send  for,  and  he  always 
goes,  whether  it  's  by  night  or  day.  When  they  'i  i  well 
he  talks  about  their  hypocrisy  and  their  sin  fulness,  and 
about  their  pride— you  've  heard  him,  have  n't  you?  But 
when  they  're  iU  .  .  .  oh,  you  would  n't  know  him.  He  's 
as  gentle  as  a  woman.  He  looks  at  their  medicine,  and 
feels  their  pulse,  and  smooths  their  pillow;  and  oh,  he 
talks  so  beautifully.  When  little  Annie  Summers  died  of 
diphtheria  he  sat  up  all  the  night  after  the  operation, 
keeping  her  throat  clear  with  a  feather  (that  was  very 


198  THE  POST-GIRL 

dangerous,  of  course,  and  he  might  have  died  of  it),  and 
when  she  was  dead  her  father  told  him  :  'I  've  never  given 
you  a  good  word  all  my  days,  Mr.  Mostyn,'  and  Father 
Mostyn  only  shook  his  head  and  told  him:  'Well,  well, 
John,  give  it  me  now.'  And  when  poor  old  James  Mar- 
shall was  dying  they  sent  for  Father  Mostyn,  of  course, 
and  James  told  him  he  was  a  bit  fearsome  he  had  n't  done 
the  right  thing  in  spending  so  much  of  his  time  at 
chapel.  And  Father  Mostyn  said :  'Make  your  mind  easy, 
James,  there  are  no  churches  or  chapels  up  there.'  Old 
Mr.  Smethurst  used  to  go  to  chapel,  too,  when  he  was 
well  enough  to  go  anywhere,  but  as  Father  Mostyn  says, 
we  can't  help  that.  The  wine  will  do  him  as  much  good 
as  if  he  had  been  to  church.  And  it  was  a  long  time  ago. 
He  '11  never  go  there  any  more." 

"Is  he  so  ill  as  that  ?"  asked  the  Spawer. 

"He  's  dying,"  said  Pam. 

The  little  tremor  of  her  lip,  and  the  sudden  moistness 
about  her  eyes — though  he  had  witnessed  these  wonderful 
manifestations  of  her  tender  nature  before  on  many  an 
occasion — went  to  the  Spawer's  heart  in  the  present  in- 
stance like  an  arrow.  Pam's  tears  were  in  everybody's 
service.  Not  idle  tears,  but  tears  that  seemed  the  sacred 
seal  of  noble  self-sacrifice  and  devotion. 

And  to  think  he  was  so  soon  going  to  remove  himself 
from  the  soft-dropping  springs  of  their  sympathy. 

"What  a  ministering  angel  you  are,"  he  said,  looking 
at  her  lightly  enough,  and  yet— though  Pam  could  not 
know  that— with  a  kind  of  tightness  about  the  throat. 

"I  'm  afraid  I  'm  not  an  angel,"  the  girl  regretted. 
"Not  a  bit  of  one.  I  wish  I  were." 

"On  the  contrary,"  he  said,  "wish  nothing  of  the  kind." 


THE  POST- GIRL  199 

"Why  not?"  she  asked. 

"Because  Ullbrig  would  miss  you  so.  Angels'  visits 
are  few  and  far  between,  and  when  they  come  they  don't 
bring  bottles.  Be  what  you  are,"  he  told  her.  "A  lay 
angel." 

"Don't  you  believe  in  real  angels  ?"  Pam  asked  him  in- 
genuously. "Dr.  Anderson  does  n't." 

The  Spawer  smiled. 

"Kindness  is  the  greatest  angel  in  the  world,"  he  said, 
and  looked  at  her.  "I  believe  in  kindness." 

"So  do  I,"  said  Pam. 

"And  do  you  never,  never  get  tired  of  doing  kind 
actions?"  he  asked  her  curiously.  "...  Surely  you 
must." 

Pam  gave  him  a  quick  look  and  dropped  her  lip, 
as  though  a  little  lead-weight  of  admission  were  upon 
it. 

"Sometimes  I  do,"  she  admitted,  and  turned  her  face 
away  from  him  as  though  the  thought  of  her  own  offend- 
ing troubled  her.  "But  somehow  .  .  .  kind  acts  always 
seem  to  pay  for  themselves,  don't  you  think  ?" 

"Do  they  ?"  he  asked  hazily. 

"Why,  yes,"  Pam  said,  after  a  moment,  just  a  little 
shaken  in  her  confidence  by  his  question.  "The  more  you 
don't  want  to  do  a  thing,  the  more  you  're  glad  when 
you  've  gone  and  done  it — a  kind  thing  I  mean." 

The  more  you  did  n't  want  to  do  a  thing  the  more  you 
were  glad  when  you  'd  gone  and  done  it.  How  did  that 
apply  to  him  ? 

"...  Father  Mostyn  says  you  must  beware  of  doing 
kindnesses  for  the  mere  gratification  of  being  thanked. 
He  says  that 's  a  deadly  sin — one  of  the  prides  of  charity. 


200  THE  POST- GIRL 

There  are  a  lot  more,  but  that  's  the  worst.  What  do 
you  think  ?" 

"What  do  I  think?  Gracious!"  laughed  the  Spawer, 
"I  dare  n't  contradict  his  Reverence.  I  think  so  too." 

"But  you !  You  're  quite  different  from  me,"  the  girl 
objected.  "I  could  n't  be  kind  at  all  if  it  were  n't  for 
Father  Mostyn.  All  my  kindnesses  have  been  taught  me 
by  him."  Such  is  the  power  of  loyalty  and  loving  ad- 
herence, that  transfers  its  own  virtues  to  the  object  of 
affection.  "But  you.  I  don't  think  you  can  help  being 
kind.  Some  people  can't.  You  seem  to  do  things  from 
the  heart  somehow,  as  though  they  came  naturally  to 
you;  but  me,  I  do  all  mine  from  the  head,  because  I  've 
been  taught  what  things  are  kind  and  what  things  are 
cruel.  And  often  I  make  mistakes  too."  She  was  think- 
ing of  the  schoolmaster.  "But  you  never  do." 

Did  n't  he?  What  were  all  his  trumpery  smiles  and 
petty  kindnesses,  his  smooth  words  and  minor  generos- 
ities, but  little  errors  of  excess  in  a  grand  sum  of  cruelty, 
that  had  brought  the  total  to  an  amount  he  dared 
scarcely  contemplate,  and  were  compelling  him  this  day 
to  cancel  these  labyrinthine  workings  of  arithmetic  by  a 
wholesale  application  of  the  sponge? 

"That,"  said  he,  looking  leniently  upon  her,  "is  because 
your  kindness,  little  woman,  won't  let  you  find  flaws  in 
mine.  But  there  are  flaws  in  it— great  flaws." 

"Where?"  asked  Pam,  with  the  earnestness  of  a  child. 

"All  over,"  said  the  Spawer. 

"You  have  always  been  kind  to  me,"  said  Pam. 

"Don't  let  's  talk  of  that,"  he  responded  cheerfully, 
affecting— double-dyed  hypocrite  that  he  knew  himself  to 
be — a  sublime  disregard  of  such  kindnesses  as  had  been 


THE  POST-GIRL  201 

his,  which  but  served  to  illuminate  his  conduct  in  the 
girl's  eyes  with  letters  of  celestial  gold  paint. 

"May  n't  I  talk  to  you  about  it  ...  ever,  please  ?"  the 
girl  asked  him. 

"Oh,  if  it 's  a  question  of  pleases,"  he  said,  with  laugh- 
ing concession,  "I  would  n't  deny  you  for  worlds.  Talk 
away,  dear  child." 

Did  he  realise  how  much  store  the  girl  set  by  these 
diminutive  titles  of  affectionate  address?  Did  he  know 
that  each  time  he  called  her  "Dear  child"  and  "Dear  girl" 
and  "Little  woman"  (mere  friendly  substitutes  for  the 
Pam  he  never  used)  her  heart  leaped  up  in  responsive 
gladness?  Did  he  know  that  each  of  these  designations, 
so  lightly  uttered  by  him,  was  a  nail  driven  into  the  door 
against  his  departure,  and  that  door  the  girl's  own  heart  ? 
Surely  and  truly  he  never  knew  it,  or  even  our  hero, 
Maurice  Ethelbert  Wynne,  for  all  his  blackguardism, 
would  have  shrunk  from  the  usage  of  them. 

"Now  I  don't  know  what  to  say,"  Pam  said. 

"Why  ever  not?" 

"Because  you  told  me  to  talk  away." 

"How  like  a  girl!  Wants  to  do  a  thing  until  she  's 
bidden,  and  then  ...  be  hanged  if  she  will.  You  con- 
trary little  feminine." 

All  the  same,  as  soon  as  he  adjured  her  not  to  mind, 
but  to  say  no  more  about  it,  she  found  plenty  to  say  in  a 
sudden  gush  respecting  his  past  kindness  to  her.  He  had 
been  so  good  to  her.  She  had  told  Father  Mostyn  to  be 
sure  and  tell  him  how  grateful  she  felt  to  him  for  all  his 
goodness.  .  .  .  Had  he  ?  But  she  had  been  dying  to  tell 
him  herself  too.  And  somehow,  whenever  she  had  be- 
gun, he  had  always  turned  her  off  so  kindly  that  she  had 


202  THE  POST-GIRL 

never  done  any  more  than  tell  him  that  she  wanted  to  tell 
him,  and  never  told  him ;  but  to-day,  when  he  had  spoken 
about  her  kindness,  she  felt  she  must  tell  him  about  his. 
There  had  been  no  reason  why  he  should  have  been  kind 
to  her.  He  had  done  it  all  so  beautifully  .  .  .  that  there 
seemed  nothing  in  it,  and  at  times  she  'd  almost  believed 
that  there  was  nothing  in  it  either,  and  that  it  was  just 
happening  so,  and  no  more.  But  when  she  'd  come  to 
look  into  it  she  saw  exactly  how  much  there  was,  and  how 
it  could  have  happened  otherwise — oh,  quite  otherwise — 
but  for  his  great  kindness  in  preventing  it.  Why  had  he 
been  so  good  to  her?  It  was  n't— as  he  'd  tried  to  make 
out— that  there  was  anything  to  gain,  because  she  'd 
nothing  in  the  world  to  give  him  except  her  thanks — and 
until  to-day  he  'd  never  even  accepted  those  from  her. 
Father  Mostyn  had  told  her,  as  he  'd  told  her  himself, 
that  he  did  n't  give  lessons  to  anybody  else  .  .  .  and  that 
she  was  his  only  pupil.  She  'd  tried  not  to  feel  proud 
about  that,  because  it  was  no  merit  of  her  own,  but  simply 
his  own  goodness;  but  she  could  n't  help  it.  Father 
Mostyn  said  you  might  feel  proud  if  your  pride  were 
pride  of  loyalty — as  pride  in  the  Church,  or  in  the  good- 
ness of  another — and  in  that  way  she  'd  felt  proud.  But 
it  was  difficult  dealing  with  prides ;  they  got  the  better  of 
you  somehow.  He  'd  given  her  music  because  he  said  he 
knew  where  to  send  for  it,  and  could  get  it  down  quicker 
—being  known  to  the  people — but  that  was  just  so  that 
she  need  n't  have  to  pay  for  it.  And  he  'd  made  her  a 
present  of  Erckmann-Chatrian's  "L'ami  Fritz"  and  "Le 
Blocus,"  and  a  beautiful  French  Dictionary.  .  .  . 

"Well,"  he  asked  her,  "...  where  's  the  goodness  in 
that?" 


THE  POST- GIRL  203 

"It  was  all  of  it  goodness." 

"Nothing  of  the  sort,  dear  girl.  It  's  all  pure  selfish 
pride." 

Oh,  no,  no,  no  !    Pam  could  n't  believe  that. 

Oh,  but  she  must  believe  it.  He  'd  given  her  lessons 
solely  for  his  own  pleasure — not  hers — because  teaching 
her  had  interested  him,  and  it  was  a  sort  of  recreation. 
And  he  'd  taught  her  French  for  the  same  reason,  and 
for  the  pride  of  being  looked  up  to  as  a  great  French 
authority.  And  he  'd  given  her  books  and  music  so  that 
she  might  say  what  a  kind,  generous  fellow  he  was, — oh, 
she  must  n't  make  any  mistake  about  the  matter;  it  was 
precious  little  goodness  she  'd  have  found  about  him.  Oh, 
he  was  a  bad  one  at  heart ! 

So,  arguing  agreeably  on  the  subject  of  goodness 
specific  and  general,  they  walked  along  the  high-road 
lane  that  leads  to  Shippus. 

Thus  they  came  at  last  upon  a  group  of  two  or  three 
detached  cottages  along  the  roadside,  white-washed  and 
blinding,  with  thatched  roofs  and  tarred  palings,  and  a 
profusion  of  giant  nasturtiums  clambering  over  the  doors 
and  licking  at  the  window-sills  with  a  great  yellow-scarlet 
blaze,  as  though  the  porches  were  on  fire.  Here  Pam 
slowed  up,  and  held  out  her  hand  for  the  basket. 

"Shall  you  be  long?"  the  Spawer  asked,  giving  it  to 
her. 

"Perhaps  you  won't  care  to  wait?"  she  suggested  wist- 
fully, though  offering  him  his  liberation. 

"Trot  along,"  said  he,  smiling  back  refusal  of  the  prof- 
fered freedom.  "I  '11  hang  about  outside  for  you.  Only 
promise  me  you  won't  slip  away  by  the  back." 

He  smiled  and  raised  his  hat  to  her  with  that  delightful 


204  THE  POST-GIRL 

blending  of  familiarity  and  homage  which  had  won  the 
girl's  heart  from  the  first.  There  were  points  about  his 
kindness  which  she  could  not  touch  upon,  even  to  him, 
and  this  was  one.  Other  men  might  have  made  her  posi- 
tion unbearable,  but  he  never.  The  raising  of  the  hat  itself 
meant  nothing,  for  she  knew  it  was  an  instinctive  recog- 
nition of  her  sex  which  accomplished  itself,  in  his  case, 
even  when  the  sex  was  adequately  disguised  beneath 
harden  aprons  and  masculine  caps ;  but  the  action  as  he 
performed  it  had  none  of  the  odious  insinuating  gallantry 
to  which  the  Saturday  Hunmouth  trippers  had  accus- 
tomed but  never  reconciled  her.  With  no  man  had  she 
ever  been  so  intimate  as  with  this  one;  and  yet  no  man 
had  ever  so  helped  her  to  preserve  her  own  modest  self- 
respect. 

Ah,  Pam,  Pam,  Pam!  Do  you  see  that  queer  little 
hunched-up  shadow,  carrying  a  shapeless  lump  of  a  bas- 
ket, that  keeps  close  by  your  side  as  you  cross  the  road 
and  lay  your  finger  upon  the  latch  of  the  tarred  wooden 
wicket  ?  It  is  the  little  old  lady,  as  plain  as  plain  can  be. 
She  makes  no  noise;  her  footsteps  merge  in  yours;  but 
day  by  day,  hour  by  hour,  moment  by  moment,  she  never 
leaves  you.  The  time  approaches  when  she  shall  rise  up 
in  her  hideous  deformity  and  declare  you  a  prisoner  in 
her  dwelling.  And  you  shall  gaze  upon  the  features  of 
an  altered  world  through  wet  windows  of  running  tears. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

OUTSIDE  the  Spawer  strolled  gently  to  and  fro  along 
the  white,  staring  roadway,  stopping  always  a  little 
short  of  the  cottages  lest  his  constant  recurrence  in  face 
of  the  window  might  seem  like  an  embargo  upon  Pam's 
moments.  To  a  casual  observer  he  looked,  in  his  light 
flannels  and  straw  hat— tilted  a  little  over  his  nose  for 
facing  the  sun — the  typical  figure  of  a  summer  lounger, 
with  no  endeavor  beyond  indolence,  and  no  thought  above 
keeping  cool.  But  within,  his  brain  was  busily  clanking 
and  clamoring,  like  an  overpressed  newspaper  office; 
editing,  sub-editing,  inserting,  de.leting,  putting  all  his 
conduct  into  orderly  columns  and  making  ruthless  "pi" 
of  it.  One  item  of  intelligence  alone  remained  stable 
amid  the  vast  jumble  of  worthless,  inconsequential  para- 
graphs : 

DEPARTURE  OF  THE  SPAWER. 

He  was  still  pacing  up  and  down  the  roadway,  his  eyes 
engrossed  in  some  systematic  method  of  placing  his  toes, 
engaged  on  the  task  of  convincing  himself  that  he  had  let 
no  real  possible  opportunity  slip  during  their  walk  of 
acquainting  the  girl  with  the  inevitable,  when  the  atmo- 
sphere of  a  sudden  lighted  up,  as  it  were,  and  he  saw  the 
red  poppies  over  the  gateway,  stooping  somewhat  at  the 
latch. 

aos 


206  THE  POST-GIRL 

"What !  So  soon  ?"  he  asked ;  and  again,  by  the  appar- 
ently spontaneous  mental  process,  he  threw  off  his  heavy 
mantle  of  musing,  and  smiled  as  though  he  had  nothing 
to  think  of  but  happiness.  "Come!  You  Ve  let  me  off 
handsome." 

Then  he  saw  that  Pam's  lips  looked  a  little  troubled, 
and  her  eyes  sought  his  face  with  trepidation. 

"It  's  not  that  .  .  ."  she  said,  watching  his  gazjs  like  a 
compass.  "...  I  'm  not  done  yet.  But  they  .  .  .  they 
saw  you  were  with  me  ...  and  .  .  .  and  won't  you 
come  in  ?" 

"It  's  awfully  good  of  'em,  little  woman,"  he  said. 
"Just  tell  'em  so,  won't  you  ?  But  really,  I  don't  mind  a 
bit.  In  fact,  I  'd  rather  be  out  here  in  the  sun." 

"I  thought  you  would  n't,"  Pam  said,  more  to  herself, 
as  though  his  reply  constituted  a  refusal  of  something  not 
uttered,  but  in  her  mind  only.  And  still  she  stood;  and 
while  she  looked  at  the  Spawer  her  eyes  filled  with  that 
sublime  wistfulness  of  theirs  that  finds  no  translation  in 
words.  "That  's  not  all,"  she  said,  after  a  pause.  "I 
have  n't  told  you.  They  know  .  .  .  who  you  are." 

"Jove !"  exclaimed  the  Spawer.  "What  a  reputation  I 
have  in  this  part  of  the  globe.  If  only  it  were  universal." 

"It 's  my  fault  .  .  ."  Pam  confessed. 

"There  's  no  fault  about  it,  dear  girl,"  he  made  haste 
to  reassure  her.  "On  the  contrary,  it  's  a  jolly  kind 
thought." 

"But  I  'm  afraid  ...  I  told  them  it  was  you  when  they 
asked  if  it  was.  And  they  know  how  beautifully  you 
play."  Her  eyes  were  absolutely  sealed  down  upon  his 
now,  so  that  not  a  flicker  of  their  expression  could  escape 
her.  "...  And  .  .  .  and  poor  old  Mr.  Smethurst  said 


THE  POST- GIRL  207 

there  were  n't  many  that  could  play  like  you.  And  I  told 
him,  indeed  there  were  n't.  And  I  was  telling  him  how 
beautifully  you  did  play  .  .  .  and  all  of  a  sudden  he  said 
he  should  just  like  to  hear  you  play  'Sound  the  loud 
timbrel'  .  .  .  before  he  died.  Did  I  think  you  would? 
And  Mrs.  Smethurst  was  frightened,  and  said  :  'Oh,  John, 
you  must  n't  ask  such  things  of  a  gentleman  like  that. 
He  does  n't  play  to  such  as  us.'  And  he  said,  oh,  so  sadly : 
'Nay,  nay,  I  suppose  I  must  n't.  But  I  feel  he  'd  do  it  if 
only  we  dared  ask  him.'  And  I  did  n't  know  what  to 
say  .  .  .  because,  of  course,  I  know  it  's  a  dreadful  thing 
to  ask  you.  But  I  made  a  pretence  of  coming  out  to  see 
whether  you  would  come  in  and  sit  down." 

The  Spawer  wrinkled  his  brows. 

"It  's  not  so  much  the  asking,"  he  said,  with  a  per- 
plexed smile,  "but  it  's  the  doing,  little  woman.  Have 
they  a  pianoforte?" 

"No,  no."  Pam  sank  deeper  into  her  trouble.  "It  's 
only  a  harmonium  ...  a  very  old  one.  I  know  it  's 
a  dreadful  thing  to  ask  you  to  sit  down  to  a  harmonium — 
and  a  hymn  tune  too.  I  'd  never,  never  have  asked  you 
to  do  such  a  thing  for  myself — but  for  somebody  else 
that  's  never  going  to  get  better  again.  Sometimes  it 
does  sick  people  you  don't  know  how  much  good  to  have 
their  fancies  gratified.  I  offered  to  try  and  play  it 
myself,  but  he  told  me:  'You  can  play  it  and  welcome 
,  .  .  but  it  won't  be  him.' ' 

"Little  woman,"  said  the  Spawer,  "no  one  knows  better 
than  you  what  an  act  of  martyrdom  it  is  for  a  pianist  to 
sit  down  to  a  harmonium  and  humble  himself  to  a  hymn 
tune.  But  because  it  's  you  that  have  asked  me,  for  your 
sake  and  through  sheer  pride— to  show  you  how  good  I 


208  THE  POST-GIRL 

am — I  '11  do  it.  It  sounds  good,  but  it  's  sheer,  downright 
pride,  remember.  Only  pride  could  get  through  with  it. 
Now ;  lead  on,  kindly  light." 

He  took  hold  of  her  indulgently  by  the  arm,  and  for  a 
few  paces  walked  so  with  her.  To  the  girl  that  touch  was 
the  crowning  patent  of  his  nobility  and  goodness ;  to  him 
it  was  so  magnetically  charged  with  the  dangerous  com- 
munion of  red,  warm  blood  that  he  let  go  of  it  by  slow, 
imperceptible  degrees,  but  with  no  less  the  feeling  that  he 
was  discarding  a  deadly  temptation.  The  warmth  of  a 
woman's  body  is  an  enervating  atmosphere  to  the  moral 
fibres  of  a  man  when  that  body  is  the  object  of  his  renun- 
ciation, and  his  fibres  are  slackened  to  start  with.  And 
the  proud  illumination  about  the  girl's  eyes  as  she  went 
forward  at  his  instigation  was  like  the  high,  bright  blaze 
of  a  lighthouse  for  holding  him  prisoner  to  its  beacon 
against  all  the  futile  beating  of  his  wings. 

Through  the  tarred  gate  and  under  the  trailing  flames 
of  nasturtium  Pam  led  him  into  the  cottage  of  the  dying 
man.  It  was  a  kitchen  living-room  they  stepped  into. 
All  about  the  threshold  and  nasturtium  porch  was  envel- 
oped in  its  own  stifling  atmosphere  of  hot  leaves  and  bak- 
ing—as distinct  from  the  corn-scented  suffocation  of  the 
outer  air.  The  kitchen  itself  seemed  congested  with  a 
close,  oveny  odor ;  the  accumulated  smell  of  many  meals 
and  many  bakings,  never  expelled,  and  the  peaty  reek  of 
a  place  where  the  fire  burns  day  in,  day  out. 

In  a  high-backed  wooden  chair  by  the  warm  side  of  the 
oven  sat  the  dying  man,  not  so  nearly  dead  as  the  Spawer 
had  pictured  him,  perhaps,  but  obviously  stricken.  He 
sat,  an  old  withered  figure,  with  the  strange  inertness  of 
body  characteristic  of  the  aged  and  the  very  sick,  alive 


THE  POST- GIRL  209 

seemingly  no  lower  than  his  head,  which  moved  slowly  in 
the  socket  of  a  grey  plaid  muffler,  wrapped  about  his 
neck  and  tucked  away  beneath  the  lapels  of  his  dingy 
green-black  coat.  There  was  a  red  cotton  cushion 
propped  under  his  shoulders.  His  legs,  motionless  as  the 
padded  legs  of  a  guy,  and  as  convincing,  looked  strangely 
swollen  and  shapeless  by  contrast  with  his  white  and 
wasted  face.  At  their  extremity  a  pair  of  lifeless,  thick 
ankles  were  squeezed  into  clumsy  country  slippers,  whose 
toes  never  once,  during  the  course  of  the  Spawer's  visit, 
stirred  away  from  the  red  spot  on  the  hearthrug  where 
he  had  at  first  observed  them.  The  invalid's  breathing 
was  the  labored  wheezy  usage  of  lungs  that  bespoke 
asthma  and  bronchitis,  and  the  hands  that  clasped  the 
arms  of  the  wooden  chair  might  have  been  carved  in  horn. 
A  couple  of  crooked  sticks  placed  in  the  projecting  angle 
of  the  range  showed  his  extremity  in  the  matter  of  loco- 
motion. To  the  Spawer,  whose  experience  with  the  dark 
obverse  of  life's  bright  medallion  was  restricted,  and 
whose  acquaintance  with  death  and  death's  methods  was 
more  by  hearsay,  as  of  some  notorious  usurer,  the  picture 
was  not  a  pleasant  one.  He  had  rather  been  left  out 
in  the  pure  sunshine  with  his  own  tormenting  thoughts 
than  be  brought  face  to  face  with  the  actual  draught  that 
all  men  mortal  must  drain.  And  yet,  he  told  himself,  this 
was  the  sort  of  thing  that  Pam  was  almost  daily  sacrific- 
ing some  portion  of  her  young  life  to ;  giving  generously 
a  share  of  her  own  freshness  and  healthfulness  and 
vitality  to  keep  burning  these  wan  and  flickering  flames. 
Wonder  of  wonders,  the  magic  chalice  of  a  woman's  heart, 
that  can  pour  forth  its  crystalline  stream  of  love  and 
comfort  and  consolation,  and  yet  not  run  dry. 

14 


210  THE  POST-GIRL 

An  elderly  woman,  in  a  print  dress,  whose  hands  were 
nervously  fidgeting  with  the  jet  brooch  at  her  throat,  and 
who  seemed  employed  in  watching  the  door  with  a  smile 
not  devoid  of  anxiety,  curtseyed  with  painful  respectful- 
ness at  the  Spawer's  entrance,  and  dusting  the  surface  of 
a  wooden  chair,  begged  him  to  be  seated.  If  he  had 
lacked  Pam's  assurance  that  his  presence  was  coveted  he 
might  have  almost  reproached  himself  for  entering  at 
some  inopportune  moment.  A  great  air  of  formality 
seemed  to  enter  with  his  advent,  and  stiffen  all  about 
them— he  felt  it  himself— as  though  they  were  on  the 
brink  of  some  important  ceremony  with  whose  procedure 
they  were  unacquainted,  like  Protestants  at  High  Mass. 
He  took  the  chair,  however,  with  the  utmost  friendliness 
and  thankfulness  he  could  assume,  and  tried  to  sit  down 
upon  it  with  a  pleasant  air  of  relief,  as  though  it  were  a 
welcome  accessory  to  his  comfort,  and  he  were  grateful.  He 
was  very  anxious,  for  his  pride's  sake,  to  do  Pam  credit. 

"Ah  !"  he  said,  seeming  to  welcome  the  discovery  of  the 
fire  as  something,  in  these  chill  times,  to  be  glad  for,  and 
addressing  himself  to  the  sick  man,  made  pleasant  allu- 
sion to  it.  "You  keep  a  bit  of  a  blaze,  I  see,"  he  said. 

"Ye  '11  'a  to  speak  up  tiv  'im  a  bit,  sir,"  the  woman  in- 
structed him  deferentially.  "  'E  weean't  a  'card  ye.  'E  's 
gettin'  that  deaf  it  's  past  mekkin'  'im  understand  at 
times." 

The  man's  head  turned  slowly  in  its  grey  woolen  socket, 
as  though  he  had  caught  the  fact  of  his  being  in  question, 
but  was  out  of  the  reach  of  the  inquiry,  and  seeking 
by  the  petition  of  his  eye  to  be  informed. 

M  'E  's  speakin'  about  fire,  gentleman  is,"  the  woman 
told  him. 


THE  POST-GIRL  211 

"What  fire?"  the  sick  man  asked,  in  a  frail,  piping 
voice— a  voice  that  a  three-days'  chicken  might  almost 
have  challenged. 

He  asked  the  question  mechanically,  with  his  eyes  on 
the  Spawer,  but  his  interest  lay  somewhere  beyond  the 
borderland  of  earthly  things,  as  though  his  mind,  through 
much  solitude  of  wandering,  had  strayed  in  advance  of 
his  body  towards  the  bourne  of  them  both,  and  was  re- 
called to  the  flesh  with  increasing  difficulty. 

"Kitchen  fire,"  his  wife  explained  to  him.  "Fire  i' 
grate  yonder." 

The  man  followed  the  line  of  her  knotted,  bony  fore- 
finger, and  let  his  eyes  fall  on  the  wasted  red  cinders,  so 
symbolical  of  his  own  condition. 

"Ay,"  he  said,  after  a  moment,  when  it  had  almost  come 
to  seem  that  the  connection  between  finger  and  fireplace 
was  quite  lost.  "Fire  's  a  bit  o'  company  to  me.  We  Ve 
been  good  friends  a  goodish  piece  noo,  but  ah  s'll  not 
need  'er  so  much  longer,  ah  'm  thinkin'." 

"Ye  div  n't  know  what  ye  '11  need,"  his  wife  admon- 
ished him,  with  the  sharpness  of  personal  anxiety.  But 
to  the  Spawer  she  added,  catching  at  her  brooch :  "Cough 
troubles  'im  a  deal  o'  nights  noo.  Doctor  says  'e  misdoots 
'e  '11  see  another  winter  thruff.  'E  xd  seummut  to  do  to 
get  thruff  last." 

The  sick  man  knew,  with  the  dumb  instinct  of  a  dog, 
that  his  case  was  being  discussed.  He  fastened  his  eyes 
on  the  Spawer's  face  to  see  whether  it  would  give  him 
any  clue  to  the  words  that  were  being  uttered.  His  wife's, 
by  experience,  he  knew  would  tell  him  nothing;  but  a 
stranger's  might. 

"Ah  'm  about  at   far  end,"  he  piped,  in  his  placid, 


212  THE  POST-GIRL 

piteous  harmonic  of  a  voice,  that  issued  between  his  lips 
with  a  sound  like  the  blowing  of  a  cornstraw.  "Ah  Ve 
been  a  sad,  naughty  slaverbags  i'  my  time,  bud  ah  'm  done 
noo.  It  's  'arvest  time  wi'  me,  an'  ah  'm  bein'  gathered  in, 
ah  think.  Doctor  's  patched  my  bellows  up  a  deal  o' 
times,  bud  they  weean't  stan'  mendin'  no  more." 

"Why  weean't  they?  Ye  've  breathed  a  deal  free-er 
last  few  days,"  his  wife  tried  to  instil  into  him.  "It  's  'is 
'eart  as  well,"  she  told  the  Spawer.  "Doctor  says  it  's 
about  worn  out.  Ay,  poor  man,  poor  man !  What  a 
thing  it  is  to  sit  an'  watch  'im  gan,  ah-sure.  An'  'im  so 
active  as  'e  was.  Bud  cryin'  weean't  alter  it,  for  ah  Ve 
tried,  an'  it  's  no  use.  It  's  Lord's  will,  an'  we  mun  just 
be  thankful  'at  'E  's  spared  'im  as  long  as  'E  'as,  wi'  me 
to  look  after  'im  an'  see  'e  gans  off  comfortable.  There  's 
monny  'at  is  n't  blessed  so  well  as  that." 

The  sick  man  fastened  his  eye  on  the  Spawer  again. 

"Ye  come  fro'  Dixon's  ?"  he  said  inquiringly ;  and  when 
the  Spawer  gave  him  an  illuminative  "Yes"— "Ay,"  he 
said,  through  his  thin  lips.  "It  's  long  enough  sin'  ah 
seed  'im.  Mebbe  ye  '11  do  me  the  kindness  to  gie  'im  mah 
respecks  when  ye  get  back.  Monny  's  the  time  'im  an' 
me  's  met  i'  Oommuth  market  an'  driven  wum  [home]  i' 
Tankard's  'bus  together.  .  .  .  Ah  Ve  been  nowt  bud 
trouble  tiv  'er  sin'  day  she  wor  fond  enough  to  tek  me,  an' 
she  would  n't  'a  tekken  me  then,  bud  ah  begged  ower  'ard. 
An'  ah  'm  nowt  bud  trouble  tiv  'er  noo." 

"Ay,  an'  ah  'd  tek  ye  agen  lad,"  the  thin,  worn  woman 
told  him,  with  an  assurance  that  was  almost  fierce. 
"Ne'er  mind  whether  ye  're  a  bad  un  or  no.  Ah  Ve 
nivver  rued  day  ah  tekt  ye— though  ye  'd  gie'n  me  twice 
trouble  ye  did.  Ah  mud  'ave  looked  far  to  fin'  a  better, 


THE  POST- GIRL  213 

an'  then  not  fun'  [found]  'im.  Let  ye  be  as  drunk  as  ye 
would,  ye  nivver  gied  me  a  bad  wod  nor  lifted  'and 
agen  me." 

"Nay,  ah  nivver  lifted  'and  agen  ye,"  the  man  assented. 
"Ah  'ad  n't  need.  Bud  that  's  little  to  my  credit.  Ah 
trailed  ye  thruff  tribulation.  What  time  ye  was  n't 
workin'  to  mek  good  what  ah  'd  wasted  ye  was  weepin' 
an'  waitin'  o'  me.  There  's  scarcelins  a  Saturday  neet,  at 
one  time,  ye  set  oot  wi'  a  dry  eye." 

"Ay,  bud  ye  nivver  stayed  away  ower  Sunday,"  his 
wife  claimed,  with  pride.  "Ye  was  allus  back  an'  to  spare 
when  Oolbrig  bells  got  set  o'  ringin'.  An'  it  's  not  ivvery 
man's  wife  about  this  district  'at  can  say  same  of  'er  'us- 
band." 

The  sick  man  listened  to  her,  and  a  pale,  wintry  smile 
flickered  across  his  face  and  over  his  frost-nipped  lips. 
Years  ago,  perhaps,  it  had  been  a  smile  as  full  of  sun- 
light as  the  Spawer's  own,  and  dear  to  the  woman's  heart. 
Perhaps  her  soul  had  pined  for  that  very  smile,  and  drunk 
of  its  remembrance,  in  the  dark  hours  that  clouded  her 
life  from  time  to  time.  The  sick  man  turned  his  eyes 
upon  the  Spawer,  while  yet  the  feeble  ray  illuminated 
them. 

"Ah  did  n't  chose  so  badlins,"  he  said,  with  a  tinge  of 
the  dry  humor  that  sparkles  mirthfully  in  the  men  of  these 
parts  like  the  crackling  of  blazing  twigs  under  a  pot. 
"Nay,  ah  got  best  o'  bargain  when  she  fastened  'ersen. 
Chosin'  a  wife  's  same  as  chosin'  a  mare  or  owt  else,  an' 
there  's  a  deal  o'  ways  o'  chosin'  wrong.  Don't  tek 
notice  o'  way  a  lass  gans  on  tiv  you,  if  ye  want  to  pick  a 
good  un— for  they  're  all  t'  same  when  they  're  carryin'  on 
wi'  a  man.  Good  uns  an'  bad  uns  acts  alike  then.  Div  n't 


214  THE  POST-GIRL 

tek  a  woman  '11  'at  fin's  ower  much  fault  wi'  'er  neighbors 
— syke  a  woman  '11  fin'  plenty  wi'  you  when  she  's  gotten 
ye  fast.  Ye  want  to  'ave  a  sharp  eye  when  ye  gan 
coortin'.  There  's  some  on  'em  'at  gans  coortin'  by  neet, 
'at  scarcelins  knows  look  o'  their  lass  by  day.  That  's  no 
way.  Don't  tek  on  wi'  a  lass  because  she  carries  a  'ymn 
book.  Onny  lass  can  carry  a  'ymn  book.  Tek  one  'at  's 
gotten  all  'er  'ymns  i'  'er  'eart.  Don't  trust  yersen  tiv  a 
lass  'at  wastes  all  'er  time  i'  runnin'  after  ye.  Think  on 
it  's  'er  feythur's  time  she  's  wastin',  'appen,  an'  when 
she  's  gotten  ye  she  '11  waste  yours.  Ay,  an'  try  an'  pick 
a  wench  'at  dizz  n't  mind  doin'  what  she  can  to  mek  it  a 
bit  brighter  for  them  'at  's  gannin'  quick  down  shady  side 
o'  life.  'Appen  she  '11  do  t'  same  when  it  comes  tiv  your 
ton  [turn]." 

All  these  things  the  Spawer  promised  to  bear  in  mind 
when  the  time  came,  with  the  despicable  hypocrisy  that 
assumed,  as  a  cloak,  the  smiling  improbability  of  any  such 
occurrence.  Cad  that  he  felt  himself,  he  dared  not  look 
at  Pam,  seated  apart  on  a  chair  by  the  door  leading  into 
a  small  scullery  beyond.  Like  Peter  he  kept  denying— by 
inference,  at  least— the  facts  of  a  case  that  would  so  un- 
pleasantly involve  him.  Like  Peter,  each  successive  denial 
smote  him  to  the  heart;  he  wept  in  spirit  over  his  own 
spirit's  weakness.  And  yet,  as  he  asked  himself  very 
naturally,  even  as  he  held  his  smile  towards  the  old  man, 
and  studiously  away  from  the  girl  that  fulfilled  (either 
in  actuality  or  in  the  guilty  similarity  set  up  by  his 
soul)  every  condition  of  the  old  fellow's  warning — was 
this  the  proper  moment  to  declare  to  her  what  he  had  to 
declare  to  her?  Could  he  for  the  first  time  acquaint  her 
with  facts  for  which  she  was  all  unprepared  before 


THE  POST- GIRL  215 

strangers  ?  No,  no,  no.  Later  on,  he  swore  it,  he  would 
fulfil  his  afternoon's  mission.  He  was  merely  a  musician, 
he  told  himself,  using  destiny  as  his  fiddle,  tuning  the 
strings  of  circumstance  to  the  tune  needed  of  him.  So, 
catching  sight  of  the  little  despicable  harmonium  for  the 
hundredth  time,  with  the  suddenly  sparkling  eye  for  a 
revelation,  "What,"  said  he,  in  accents  of  surprised  pleas- 
ure that  even  deceived  Pam — (though  he  dared  not  have 
thought  it) — "a  harmonium?" 

The  old  woman  whipped  off  its  meagre  tippet  of  oil- 
cloth in  a  twinkling,  and  displayed  its  poor  double  octave 
of  discolored  celluloid  with  a  toothless  smile  of  proud 
possession. 

"Mester  bought  it,"  she  said.  "He  was  allus  fond  of  a 
bit  o'  music." 

How  was  she  to  know,  poor  soul,  the  strickening  effect 
that  fatal  use  of  the  diminutive  had  on  the  sensitive  fibres 
of  the  Spawer's  nature?  Not  from  his  face,  surely,  for 
he  smiled  pure  sunlight. 

They  dusted  the  keys  for  him,  and  a  chair,  and  put  up 
the  fragile  desk,  that  subsided  like  a  schooner  before  the 
blast,  with  its  masts  bending,  and  the  Spawer  sat  down 
and  did  his  best. 

Heavens,  what  a  best ! 

The  very  tone  of  the  instrument  that  cried  out  under 
his  touch  shook  his  soul  and  almost  frightened  his  fingers 
from  the  keys.  So  raucous  it  was;  so  noisily  sanctimo- 
nious; so  redolent  of  blind  musicians;  of  street-corner 
meetings;  so  unblushingly  bald;  so  callous;  so  unsensi- 
tive ;  so  ostentatious ;  so  utterly  awful.  Every  nerve, 
fibre,  and  tissue  of  musical  organization  was  offended ; 
it  was  a  crying  offence  against  every  instinct  of  musical 


216  THE  POST-GIRL 

art.  And  all  the  while,  as  though  the  soul  itself  were  not 
being  sufficiently  punished  by  humiliation,  the  body  was 
being  subjected  to  the  physical  indignity  of  working  its 
legs  like  a  journeyman  scissors-grinder. 

Ye  gods!  the  tragic  absurdity  of  it  all.  To  musical 
natures  less  cultured,  to  senses  less  susceptible  than  the 
Spawer's,  there  would  have  been  the  rising  of  throats 
and  the  wetness  of  tears  during  this  scene,  for,  truth  to 
tell,  it  lacked  none  of  the  elements  of  moving  pathos  and 
tragedy.  The  dying  man;  the  care-worn  woman;  the 
girl  with  the  compassionate  lips;  the  musician  bending 
over  his  task  of  devotion;  the  hymn  tune  evolved  into 
harmony  by  his  shaping  fingers  from  the  low  humming 
of  the  girl's  lips : 

"Sound  the  loud  timbrel  o'er  Egypt's  dark  sea ; 
Jehovah  hath  triumphed,  His  people  are  free  .  .  ." 

the  half-drawn  blind — so  soon  to  be  drawn  down  to  its 
full ;  the  sun  beating  on  the  window  and  on  the  red-tiled 
floor.  .  .  . 

Not  one  witness  in  a  thousand,  drawn  independently  to 
consider  the  scene,  would  have  pierced  to  the  heart 
of  the  pathos,  and  grasped  through  the  tearful  confusion 
of  their  sympathies,  that  perhaps  the  most  beautiful 
focus-point  of  emotion  was  in  the  seated  figure  of  the 
musician,  castigating  his  musical  soul  with  biting  thongs 
for  the  sake  of  one  girl  and  a  dying  man,  and  showing  no 
sign. 

And  what  recompense  of  moral  gratification  did  he  re- 
ceive in  return  for  his  act  of  artistic  abnegation  ?  Little 
enough,  it  must  be  confessed,  that  the  Spawer  could 


THE  POST-GIRL  217 

discover.  The  old  man  looked  older,  he  thought ;  the  old 
woman's  prefatory  smile  of  appreciative  pride  had  been 
quenched  by  the  music,  and  her  attitude  when  he  turned 
round  upon  her  was  the  incomprehending  silence  of  re- 
spect. All  her  face,  so  to  speak,  had  fallen  to  pieces  like 
an  over-shortened  pie,  with  no  concentration  of  interest 
to  hold  up  the  crust  of  its  expression.  Perhaps  the  very 
harmonies  with  which  the  Spawer  had  clad  the  naked 
melody  of  a  hymn  tune  had  so  baffled  their  decaying, 
primitive  hearing  that  they  had  failed  to  recognise  it  in 
its  new  garb.  He  had  done  better,  possibly,  to  play  the 
melody  out  for  them  with  one  finger.  Pam's  face  alone 
compensated  him.  She,  he  knew— and  was  glad  to  know 
— was  too  much  awakened  to  the  scope  and  magnitude  of 
music  to  have  derived  anything  approaching  personal 
pleasure  from  a  crude  performance  such  as  this ;  but  she 
had  realised  what  nausea  it  must  have  been  to  him,  and  in 
the  light  of  a  sacrifice  alone  she  had  rejoiced  in  his 
achievement. 

Well,  however,  the  achievement  was  over,  and  they 
were  ready  to  go  any  time  now.  The  old  woman  re- 
placed the  oilcloth  over  the  harmonium  with  a  look  of 
relief  (or  so  the  Spawer  thought,  but  he  thought  wrong), 
and  Pam  was  just  opening  her  lips  to  suggest  departure 
when  the  old  man  piped  out  in  his  faltering  treble : 

"Ay,  bud  ye  '11  gie  me  a  chapter  before  ye  gan,  lass, 
weean't  ye  ?" 

Pam  turned  a  troubled  eye  part-way  towards  the 
Spawer,  as  though  it  were  accompanying  a  thought  of 
hers  on  its  own  account;  but  she  stopped  it  before  it 
reached  him,  and  dropped  submissive  hands. 

"Would  you  like  me  to  ?"  she  asked  gently. 


218  THE  POST-GIRL 

"Ay ;  ah  s'd  tek  it  kindly  if  ye  would." 

"You  don't  mind?"  she  asked  the  Spawer  softly;  and 
with  his  assent,  readily  given,  "I  will,"  she  said. 

"Gie  'er  the  Book,  lass,"  he  ordered  his  wife;  and  the 
careworn  woman  lifted  it  from  beneath  a  pair  of  folded 
spectacles,  and  delivered  it  reverently  into  the  girl's  re- 
ceiving fingers. 

"What  shall  I  read  you  ?"  Pam  asked,  setting  the  book 
on  her  knees,  and  turning  over  the  pages,  now  backwards, 
now  forwards. 

"Ah  '11  'ave  that  bit  o'  John,"  he  told  her,  "about  man- 
sions an'  such-like,  if  ye  've  no  objections." 

"Is  that  the  fourteenth  chapter?"  Pam  suggested  in- 
quiringly. "Did  n't  we  have  it  last  time  ?" 

"Ay,  an'  we  mud  as  lief  'ave  it  this,"  he  decided  plac- 
idly. "It  '11  be  none  the  wuss  of  a  time  or  two.  Book  's 
not  same  as  other  things.  There  's  allus  seummut  fresh 
in  it  for  them  'at  gans  tiv  it  wi'  a  right  'eart.  Ah  s'd  'a 
done  better  if  ah  'd  ganned  tiv  it  when  ah  'ad  use  o'  legs 
Lord  gid  me.  It  's  ower  late  to  larn  me  to  walk  straight 
i'  this  wuld  noo,  but  'appen  ah  s'll  be  about  ready  to 
scrammle  along  to  next,  when  time  comes." 

"The  fourteenth  chapter  of  the  Gospel  according  to  St. 
John,"  Pam  announced,  as  signifying  that  she  had  found 
the  place,  and  smoothing  down  the  page  with  her  soft 
finger,  lifted  her  voice  and  read : 

"Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled.  ...  Ye  believe  in 
God,  believe  also  in  me.  In  my  Father's  house  are  many 
mansions ;  if  it  were  not  so,  I  would  have  told  you.  I  go 
to  prepare  a  place  for  you." 

When  Pam  said :  "If  it  were  not  so  ...  I  would  have 
told  you,"  one  felt  it  must  be  so  indeed.  Such  lips  could 


THE  POST-GIRL  219 

never  lie.  And  as  the  girl's  clear  voice  rose  and  filled  that 
little  kitchen— so  compassionate,  so  truthful,  so  natural— 
the  full  sublimity  of  the  picture  of  a  sudden  swelled  up 
in  the  Spawer's  soul  and  mounted  to  his  throat.  The  in- 
gredient elements  of  the  scene  were  unchanged,  but  now 
how  exalted.  He  saw,  in  a  flash,  as  though  his  spiritual 
eyes  had  been  opened,  the  true  pathos  of  the  picture: 
the  dying  man,  seated  so  motionless  in  his  chair,  with  his 
faded  blue  eyes  gazing  into  Heaven  through  the  blind; 
the  worn  woman,  the  better  portion  of  whose  years  and 
loving  energy  the  man  was  taking  to  the  grave  with  him ; 
the  sweet,  purifying  sunlight  bathing  the  world  outside; 
the  girl  with  the  lips  of  celestial  compassion,  drawing  old 
truths  from  the  battered  and  thumb-marked  Bible,  distil- 
ling them  anew  in  pure  liquid  sound,  and  dropping  them 
so  coolingly  into  the  overheated  kitchen  of  death.  All 
these  he  saw — acutely  with  his  inward  vision,  dimly  with 
his  material — and  wondered,  as  he  saw  it,  that  the  girl 
could  proceed  so  courageously  and  so  unfalteringly  on  her 
consolatory  path.  He  himself  would  have  fared  along  it 
badly,  and  knew  it.  But  it  was  not  the  last  time  he  was 
to  marvel  at  the  girl's  self-possession  when  circumstances 
demanded,  and  perhaps  this  second  time  he  would  re- 
member it  even  better. 

"Ye  '11  tek  liberty  to  call  agen,  mebbe,"  the  old  man 
invited  him  as  they  stood  finally  for  departure,  "...  if 
ah  'm  not  mekkin'  ower  free  to  ask  ye ;  but  it  's  a  lonely 
road  when  a  man  draws  to  yend  of  'is  days.  Busy  folk 
can't  reckon  to  be  treubled  wi'  'im — an'  i'  'arvest  an'  all. 
Ah  wor  no  better  mysen  when  ah  'ad  my  faculties.  Ye  '11 
be  stayin'  wi'  Dixon  a  goodish  while  yet,  mebbe  ?" 

At  the  direct  question  the  Spawer's  resolution  spun 


220  THE  POST-GIRL 

round  and  made  as  though  to  turn  tail.  There  was  just  a 
slight  pause— quite  inappreciable  to  the  others  about  him, 
but  painfully  magnified  to  himself— while  he  struggled 
whether  to  ignore  the  opportunity  or  seize  it  like  a  man, 
and  sign  irrevocably  the  bond  of  his  departure. 

"Perhaps  .  .  ."  he  was  quibbling  with  the  reply  even 
yet,  while  speaking,  not  knowing  whether  to  evade  or  to 
grapple  with  his  chance.  Then  he  grappled  suddenly, 
but  always  with  that  frank,  pleasant  smile  of  his  that 
showed  no  inkling  of  an  inward  perplexity.  ".  .  .  On 
the  other  hand,"  he  said,  "...  it  's  possible  I  may  be 
going  any  time  now — any  day  even."  He  sensed  rather 
than  saw  the  quick  turn  of  the  girl's  eyes  upon  him,  and 
knew,  too,  in  what  kind  of  mild,  protesting  surprise  she 
was  looking  at  him.  She  could  not  credit  that  he  should 
first  communicate  such  an  important  piece  of  intelligence 
to  strangers,  without  having  prepared  her  by  a  single 
word,  and  was  wondering  sorrowfully  whether  it  were 
not  an  excuse  to  evade  any  promise  of  visiting  the  old 
man  again. 

"It  all  depends,"  the  Spawer  explained,  throwing  his 
explanation  over  the  truth  of  the  matter  like  a  pleasant 
nebula,  "...  on  a  letter.  I  'm  expecting  to  hear.  One 
can't  stay  for  ever,  you  know,"  he  added  amiably,  "even 
where  one  's  happy." 

"Nay,  nay,"  the  old  man  acquiesced  mournfully. 
"When  a  man  comes  to  my  years  'e  fin's  that  oot  tiv  'is 
sorrer.  Well,  well;  ah  awpe  [hope]  when  ye  think  fit  to 
change  ye  '11  change  for  t'  better,  young  gen'leman,  an' 
ah  thank  ye  for  yer  company  an'  yer  kindness."  He 
turned  the  faint  flicker  of  his  long-ago  smile  upon  Pam, 
like  the  sunlight  stealing  over  an  autumn  landscape. 


THE  POST-GIRL  221 

"Pam  's  not  likely  to  change  yet  a  bit,"  he  said,  with  a 
sense  of  comfort  in  the  thought,  as  though  the  girl  were 
a  true  staff  to  rest  on  in  time  of  trouble.  Pam  shook  her 
head  reassuringly.  "Nay,  Pam  mun  't  change  yet  a  bit," 
he  admonished  her.  "She  mun  stop  an'  see  t'  old  man  's 
time  oot,  ah  think.  'E  weean't  keep  'er  so  long  noo,  but 
'e  's  a  selfish  old  chap ;  'e  dizz  n't  want  to  part  wi'  'er  no 
sooner  nor  need  be.  She  's  been  as  good  tiv  'im  as  if 
she  'd  been  'is  own  bairn.  Ay,  an'  better.  There  's  not 
monny  bairns  'at  'ud  'a  done  as  much— an'  said  as  little. 
Nay,  nay ;  they  'd  'a  telt  'im  'e  was  a  treublesome  old  feller 
long  sin'.  Good-by,  lass;  good-by — an'  gie  my  respecks 
tiv  'is  Rivrence  when  'e  comes  back." 

His  eye  kindled  momentarily  as  the  girl  laid  light  fin- 
gers on  the  horny  right  hand  and  stooped  and  kissed  him. 
But  the  light  of  this  died  out  of  them  as  soon  as  he  had 
done  speaking,  and  the  pressure  of  her  clasp  relaxed.  As 
they  passed  out  of  the  kitchen  his  gaze  followed  them 
dimly  from  afar,  seeming  to  inquire  who  were  these 
figures  departing,  and  whence  came  they  and  what  their 
errand,  and  in  what  remote,  unintelligible  degree  their 
presence  concerned  himself. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

FOR  a  short  space  the  Spawer  and  Pam  walked  along 
in  silence,  but  sharing  the  same  thought,  as  though 
they  made  joint  use  of  an  umbrella.  The  stillness  of  a 
great  Sunday  had  fallen  over  them ;  like  communicants 
of  the  Blessed  Sacrament  of  Charity,  they  walked  away 
a  little  hushed,  each  treasuring  the  remembrance  of  the 
other's  goodness ;  each  trying  to  retain  undissipated  those 
elusive  sky-colors  of  exaltation  that  at  length  must  melt 
and  fade  away,  however  carefully  cherished,  into  the  dull 
grey  of  daily  life. 

And  between  here  and  the  joining  of  the  roads  at 
Hesketh's  corner  the  Spawer  was  pledged  to  sign  the 
document  of  departure.  In  two  odd  miles  of  green- 
bordered  laneway  he  was  to  waft  all  their  charitable  illu- 
sion on  one  side  with  the  rude  hand  of  resolve,  like  the 
intrusive  fumes  of  rank  tobacco,  rather  than  the  blessed 
clouds  of  incense,  and  make  a  clear  path  for  his  shuffling 
feet  to  walk  in. 

He  stole  a  look  down  the  side  of  his  nose  at  the  girl  by 
his  elbow.  If  her  clear  face  had  been  a  window,  and  he 
a  contemptible  urchin  whose  purpose  was  a  stone  secreted 
in  the  palm  of  his  hostile  hand,  he  could  not  have  put  it 
behind  his  back  with  greater  shame  or  remorse  when  she 
looked  up  at  him. 

"Hello!"  he  said,  drawing  up  in  their  equable  stride 
with  a  fine  pretence  of  awakening  consciousness  to  the 


THE  POST-GIRL  223 

trend  of  their  steps.  "Where  on  earth  are  we  hurrying 
off  to  so  fast  ?" 

The  girl  drew  up  too,  and  sought  his  face  inquiringly. 

"Home  .  .  .  are  n't  we?"  she  suggested,  with  a  gentle 
stirring  of  surprise  at  his  need  for  the  question. 

"Are  you  so  anxious  to  get  rid  of  me?"  he  asked. 

"I  ?    Oh,  no  ...  I  was  n't  thinking  about  that." 

"Let  's  think  about  it  now,  then,"  he  prompted  agree- 
ably. "Truth  to  tell,  little  woman,  you  've  made  me  feel 
such  a  very  good  little  boy—so  smug  and  pious — that  I 
dread  going  back  to  the  corrupt  and  naughty  world  yet  a 
bit.  I  feel  I  only  want  just  a  little  time  for  my  wings  to 
grow.  So  don't  spoil  an  angel  for  a  penn'orth  of  tar. 
Give  me  a  chance  to  become  a  cherub,  that  's  a  dear  girl. 
What  do  you  say  to  a  turn  as  far  as  the  cliff  at  Shippus  ? 
I  'm  not  sure  that  I  shan't  be  able  to  fly  by  the  time  we  get 
there.  Don't  stand  in  the  way  of  my  flying,  please." 

Pam  stood  swinging  the  empty  basket  against  her 
skirts,  with  a  hungry  look  towards  Shippus  and  a  linger- 
ing duty-pull  towards  Ullbrig.  Inwardly,  ah!  if  he  'd 
only  known  how  she  was  dying  to  accept  this  invitation 
without  demur. 

"I  don't  know  ...  I  should  like,"  she  admitted,  and 
asked :  "What  time  is  it,  please  ?" 

"Ah,  what  a  girl  for  strict  time  it  is,  to  be  sure,"  the 
Spawer  made  answer  banteringly,  pulling  out  his  watch. 
"Always  one,  two,  three,  four ;  one,  two,  three,  four.  But 
strict  time  's  not  always  music,  piccola  mia,  don't  forget 
that.  And  music  's  like  life,  no  good  at  all  without  a  little 
'tempo  rubato.'  Five  o'clock,  dear  child— and  there  's  a 
green  fly  on  your  chin."  He  stooped  forward,  put  his 
lips  towards  it,  and  puffed  it  lightly  away.  What  a  pretty 


224  THE  POST-GIRL 

chin  it  was,  seen  so  near  too,  and  how  almost  like  kissing 
it  it  had  seemed — though  not  quite.  Ah,  not  quite. 
(What  would  she  have  said  if  he  had,  now?)  "There," 
he  exclaimed,  as  the  green  fly  floated  out  into  space, 
".  .  .  excuse  my  taking  the  liberty  of  blowing,  but  I 
was  n't  sure  of  my  touch.  I  did  n't  want  to  defile  your 
chin  with  a  murder,  by  accident.  Well,  what  do  you 
say  ?" 

"Five  o'clock  's  rather  late,"  was  what  the  girl  said, 
but  there  was  as  little  backbone  in  the  suggestion  as  in 
the  body  of  a  sawdust  doll.  "I  'm  afraid  .  .  .  tea." 

"The  very  thing,"  the  Spawer  decided.  "Let  's  have 
tea  at  Shippus  together,  and  walk  back  like  giants  re- 
freshed. Come ;  what  do  you  say  to  that  ?  I  say  beauti- 
ful! beautiful!  What  do  you  say?" 

Apparently  the  girl  said  "Oh!"  and  having  said  that, 
seemed  able  to  say  no  more. 

"Very  well,  then,"  the  Spawer  declared,  artfully  taking 
the  "Oh !"  for  assent.  "Come  along  and  let  's  tell  'em  to 
put  the  kettle  on,  and  be  sure  to  give  us  tea-leaves  out  of 
the  canister." 

He  took  possession  of  the  basket  again,  that  she  re- 
leased into  his  hands  as  token  of  submission  to  his  will. 

"You  won't  .  .  .  lose  the  cover  cloth,  though,  will 
you?"  she  besought  him,  when  he  showed  a  tendency  to 
swing  it  too  freely. 

"I  '11  stuff  it  in  my  pocket,"  he  promised  her,  suiting 
action  to  his  words.  "And  then  I  shall  be  sure  to  have  it 
safe  with  me  at  Cliff  Wrangham  when  you  want  it." 

Then  slowly  and  happily  they  retraced  their  steps  to- 
wards the  sea. 

Being  a  Tuesday,  and  harvest-time  to  boot — the  sacred 


THE  POST-GIRL  225 

Sunday  feeling  of  silence  covered  Shippus  too  beneath 
its  beneficent  mantle.  Moreover,  week-days  are  the  only 
Sabbaths  that  this  place  ever  knows.  As  soon  as  the 
church  bells  of  Ullbrig  announce  to  the  landlady. of  the 
Royal  Arms  (which  is  four  fifths  of  Shippus,  as  every- 
body knows)  the  hour  of  divine  service,  she  throws  open 
the  dingy  business  door,  and  listens  for  the  welcome  rum- 
ble of  the  first  brake  load  of  travelers  who  have  driven 
out  the  thirteen  odd  miles  from  Hunmouth  to  be  supplied 
with  the  drink  that  would  be  denied  them  (by  the  devout 
act  of  a  Protestant  and  religious  Government)  at  their 
own  door.  There  is  nothing  at  all  royal  about  the  Royal 
Arms  except  the  name.  It  is  disclosed  with  the  remaining 
few  cottages  of  Shippus  at  a  quick  turn  of  the  road— an 
irregular,  dirty-washed  building — presenting,  apparently, 
nothing  but  back  doors.  Indeed,  there  is  no  front  en- 
trance at  all,  that  I  know  of.  And  the  Spawer  approaches 
the  Royal  Arms  and  orders  the  Royal  Arms  to  put  the 
kettle  on  and  lay  the  table  for  two,  with  ham  and  eggs 
and  anything  else  they  think  likely  to  tempt  an  invalid. 
And  the  Royal  Arms,  which  is  the  austere- faced  lady 
who  looked  sternly  at  them  on  their  arrival  through  the 
small-paned  window  of  what  might  be  the  scullery,  after 
suggesting  that  he  should  accompany  her  to  the  hen-run 
and  pick  his  fancy,  promised  tea  faithfully  in  twenty 
minutes.  She  could  also  promise  it  in  fifteen,  if  he  liked, 
but  not  faithfully. 

On  a  backless  bench,  close  by  the  cliff  edge,  Pam  and 
the  Spawer  sat  together  in  blessed  community  of  spirit, 
and  solaced  their  souls  in  the  blue  sea  before  them.  The 
sun,  sinking  behind  their  backs,  cast  their  two  shadows 

far  out  on  to  the  sands  below,  above  the  black  silhouette 
is 


226  THE  POST-GIRL 

of  the  cliff.  Right  out  to  sea,  on  the  straight,  blue  line  of 
the  horizon,  a  ship  stood  up  in  snowy  purity,  like  an  ice- 
berg. Over  one  corner  of  the  sky  a  smudge,  as  though  a 
finger  dipped  in  soot  had  drawn  it  across  the  azure,  broad 
at  its  base,  thinned  away  to  where  it  joined  itself  by  a  fine 
thread  to  the  funnel  of  a  distant  steamer.  The  chalk 
cliffs  of  Farnborough  rose  up  above  the  water  in  white 
marble,  and  the  little  alabaster  finger  of  the  lighthouse 
showed  clear,  like  a  tiny  belemnite. 

And  after  they  had  spent  their  twenty  minutes  in  contem- 
plation of  the  scene  and  wandered  to  and  fro  a  little  along 
the  trampled  margin  of  the  cliff,  they  retrace  their  steps 
and  make  their  way  into  the  tea-room  of  the  Royal  Arms. 

It  is  a  long,  low-ceilinged  room,  that  promises  little  ii? 
the  way  of  table  luxuries,  and  keeps  its  word.  A  great, 
bare  table  runs  up  the  centre  of  it  on  trestles,  looking  like 
a  crocodile ;  scaly  with  the  involute  rings  of  many  glasses, 
and  discolored  with  the  spillings  of  many  liquids.  At 
the  far  end,  in  a  corner  by  the  window,  is  an  aged  piano — 
more  aged  than  any  the  Spawer  has  ever  come  across,  he 
thinks.  He  gives  an  exclamation  of  amused  greeting 
when  his  eyes  first  fall  upon  it,  and  throwing  up  the  lid, 
shakes  hands  with  it  most  affably.  Probably  it  has  never 
known  respectability  since  the  hour  of  its  birth — or  at 
least  since  it  went  into  the  world  from  the  factory.  It 
has  been  a  pot-house  creature — changing  from  pot-house 
to  pot-house,  from  vaults  to  cosy,  from  cosy  to  smoke- 
room,  and  from  smoke-room  to  private  bar— until  its 
landing  here  from  Hunmouth  three  years  ago.  It  has  the 
cracked,  dissipated,  nasal  voice  of  a  chucker-out,  accus- 
tomed to  hurl  vile-chorded  epithets  against  a  roomful  of 
rowdy  soakers,  and  knows  nothing  of  tune,  never  having 


THE  POST-GIRL  227 

heard  any.  But  such  as  it  is,  it  is  a  distinct  discovery  and 
an  acquisition  to  the  present  company. 

"My  good  fellow,"  the  Spawer  tells  it,  "it  is  plain  you 
know  nothing  of  my  friends  Brahms  and  Beethoven — to 
say  nothing  of  Chopin.  Later  on  I  must  certainly  intro- 
duce you.  It  would  n't  be  fair  to  them  to  leave  you  un- 
acquainted when  such  a  fine  opportunity  offers." 

But  for  the  present  they  take  their  places  at  the  end  of 
the  crocodile  table,  where  a  cloth  has  been  spread,  with  a 
pewter  tea-pot  stand;  a  glass  bowl  of  some  very  azure 
and  crystallised  lumps  of  sugar;  a  dried  seed-cake,  set 
out  on  a  tri-colored  tissue  paper  doyley;  some  treacly 
marmalade;  some  butter;  and  a  meagre  miscellany  of 
cheese-cakes.  Ah,  how  different  from  Pam's  cooking 
and  Pam's  management,  all  these— and  yet,  under  the  cir- 
cumstances, quite  enjoyable  too,  as  a  sort  of  super-ex- 
alted jest.  An  under-sized  girl  in  a  full-sized  apron,  who 
tilts  the  end  of  a  big  tray  at  such  an  angle  upward,  in 
front  of  her,  to  sustain  it  at  all,  that  she  appears,  on  ap- 
proach, to  be  walking  on  her  knees,  ministers  to  their 
needs.  She  gives  Pam  an  oppressed  greeting,  for  Pam 
knows  her  and  she  knows  Pam,  but  her  eye  is  mainly  oc- 
cupied with  the  Spawer.  She  is  visibly  impressed  with  his 
importance,  but  the  impression,  like  all  else  about  the 
Royal  Arms,  does  not  run  to  superfluous  courtesy.  When 
he  addresses  a  remark  to  her  that  she  has  not  heard,  she 
tilts  up  her  chin,  sideways  on,  and  screwing  her  lips  to 
inquiry  says:  "Eh?"  or  "M'm?"  When  he  asks  for  a 
knife  she  demands :  "En't  ye  got  one  ?"  and  when  he  re- 
moves his  elbow  to  look,  sees  for  herself  he  has  n't,  and 
tells  him,  "Ah  thought  ah  'd  setten  two,"  as  though  that 
explained  everything.  The  Spawer  thanks  her  liberally 


228  THE  POST-GIRL 

for  all  she  does  for  them,  but  never  once  can  he  succeed 
in  forcing  a  "Thank  you"  from  her  in  return. 

But  it  's  all  very  jolly  and  entertaining.  Pam  pours 
out  the  tea. 

"Sugar  and  cream  mine  for  me,  dear  girl,"  the  Spawer 
bids  her,  "while  I  tackle  the  ham." 

"How  many  do  you  take  ?"  Pam  asks  him. 

"As  many  as  you  like  to  give  me,"  the  Spawer  tells  her. 
"I  promise  I  won't  complain." 

"I  '11  give  you  one  and  a  bit,  then,"  Pam  says.  "Then 
you  can  come  again  if  you  like." 

"How  good  of  you,"  says  the  Spawer. 

And  altogether  they  are  very  happy  indeed.  They  eat 
part  of  their  ham  and  eggs  with  dreadful  deadly  Bengal 
metal  forks,  and  cut  them  with  leaden-looking  knives, 
bone-hafted,  that  are  warranted  "Real  Sheffield  Steel," 
without  compromising  any  particular  maker  by  name. 

And  they  urge  each  other  to  fresh  helpings  of  the  dried 
seed-cake,  that  probably  began  its  public  career  last  Bank 
Holiday;  and  partake  of  the  fly-blown  cheese-cakes,  so 
great  is  their  exaltation.  At  times  too,  those  necessary 
words  are  almost  upon  the  Spawer's  lips.  The  moment 
seems  propitious.  Only  let  him  swallow  this  mouthful, 
and  he  will  tell  her  ...  he  will  say  to  her : 

"Dear  girl  .  .  ." 

Then  the  Dear  Girl  smiles,  or  the  Dear  Girl  turns  her 
head,  or  the  Dear  Girl  forestalls  his  words  with  words 
infinitely  more  desirable,  or  catches  his  eye,  and  sends  it 
back  with  as  guilty  a  feeling  as  though  he  were  a  top- 
story  lodger  trying  to  sneak  down  the  staircase  for  a 
bucket  of  coal,  and  intercepted  with  his  nose  at  the  door 
and  the  bucket  in  his  hand. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

AND  meanwhile,  as  he  removed  himself  more  com- 
pletely from  the  girl  by  resolve,  they  came  closer  to 
each  other  in  spirit.  At  the  piano  against  the  window, 
looking  out  upon  a  poultry-run  and  the  profile  of  three 
meagre  swing-boats,  the  Spawer  sat  down  and  made 
music,  and  the  music — even  from  this  cracked,  tin-plate, 
pot-house  piano— seemed  to  sum  up  all  the  goodness,  all 
the  charity,  all  the  kindness,  all  the  happiness  of  the  day; 
give  it  a  pure  and  hallowed  expression,  as  the  night's 
thanksgiving  prayer  gives  blessed  articulation  to  the  hid- 
den processes  of  the  soul.  It  was  a  mantle,  this  music 
that  the  Spawer  made,  enfolded  about  them  both.  Their 
two  lives,  at  this  moment,  were  silver  streams  of  content, 
that  met  in  melodious  estuary,  and  flowed  henceforth  with 
one  broad  current  towards  the  infinite. 

Ah!  Dangerous  state  of  exaltation  this,  when  souls 
seem  severed  from  the  body,  and  feel  no  clog  of  their 
fleshy  burthens  binding  them  to  sordid  earth.  When 
spirits  are  so  emancipated  from  the  material  that  a  breath 
can  almost  blow  them;  when  life  seems  to  have  lost  all 
root  in  worldly  soil,  but  is  merely  the  blessed  sweet  odor, 
hovering  above  the  blossom  of  existence.  While  the 
Spawer  played  the  sky  deepened.  It  seemed  to  descend 
like  a  beneficent  angel  from  heaven  and  clasp  the  swing- 
boats  in  a  celestial  embrace,  so  that  they  slumbered  with 
the  deep  peace  that  comes  from  above.  Pallid  harvest 

229 


230  THE  POST-GIRL 

stars  opened  places  for  themselves  in  the  curtain  of  blue 
dusk  and  peeped  down  upon  the  scene.  Night  threw 
down  her  lawny  veil  of  mist,  that  wound  the  world 
dreamily  in  its  filmy  folds  and  hid  the  realities  of  exist- 
ence. The  life  of  toil  and  labor,  the  life  of  matter  and 
the  life  of  fact— these  lives  were  no  more,  they  were 
merged  in  a  delightful  life  of  dreams.  To  think  was  to 
do.  Activity  was  merely  a  beautiful  unfolding  of  the 
soul,  delivered  of  all  gross  physical  exertion,  like  the 
expansion  of  a  cloud  or  the  dreamy  convolution  of  a  puff 
of  white  steam.  Pam  and  the  Spawer  were  no  longer 
flesh  and  blood  ;  they  were  the  disembodied  souls  of  them- 
selves. They  were  their  own  thoughts,  disencumbered  of 
the  flesh,  merged  delightfully  into  each  other,  and  moving 
by  volition  amid  a  world  of  dreams.  Everything  that  lay 
about  them  was  symbolised  into  sublime  moral  truths, 
into  doctrines  of  love  and  charity.  All  the  world,  all 
their  doings,  were  dreams. 

They  dreamed  they  left  the  piano  and  bought  more  tea- 
biscuits  at  six  a  penny,  and  wandered  forth  (without  any 
consciousness  of  legs)  to  redeem  their  promise  to  the 
donkeys.  After  much  wandering,  they  dreamed  they 
found  them  and  fed  them.  Divine  symbolism  of  love. 
And  the  girl  dreamed  she  kissed  their  noses  and  said 
many  good-bys.  Kissed  the  donkeys'  noses?  Did  she 
really  kiss  their  noses?  Or  were  these  kisses,  cashed 
upon  the  donkeys'  noses,  but  the  kisses  of  love  and  happi- 
ness drawn  upon  the  bank  of  universal  love  about  them, 
and  paid  into  the  treasury  of  their  joint  content?  And 
she  wound  her  soft  dream  arms  about  the  donkeys'  necks. 
But  in  this  nebulous  state  of  bliss,  where  all  thoughts,  all 
actions,  all  love,  and  all  happiness  seemed  shared  in 


THE  POST-GIRL  231 

common,  and  indivisible,  like  the  particles  of  gases  that 
shift  and  move  and  change  their  relative  positions,  but 
do  not  alter  their  substantial  bulk,  it  might  have  been  that 
her  dream  arms  wound  about  the  Spawer's  dream  neck. 
They  dreamed  their  way  to  the  cliff  edge  to  take  farewell 
of  the  sea,  that  lay  out  with  a  silver-grey  sheen  upon  its 
blue  depth.  On  the  same  seat  they  sat  again,  with  their 
backs  to  the  contracting  shapelessness  of  the  Royal  Arms 
and  the  west,  whose  dusky  cheek  the  setting  sun  tinged 
to  crimson  like  the  blush  of  a  beautiful  Creole.  The  pene- 
trating eye  of  Farnborough  looked  out  at  them  from 
across  the  water,  took  stock  of  them  and  closed  itself  once 
more.  Anon  it  looked  this  way  again,  to  see  if  they  were 
still  there,  and  there  they  were.  Many  strange  scenes  of 
love,  in  all  love's  aspects,  has  the  far-seeing  eye  of  Farn- 
borough witnessed  in  its  day,  by  the  side  of  the  water 
along  this  coast.  What  it  does  not  know  of  these  emo- 
tions— as  well  as  of  the  comedies  and  tragedies  of  death 
— is  not  worth  knowing. 

They  dreamed,  these  two  did,  that  they  rose  again  and 
wandered  a  little  along  the  cliff  line.  They  dreamed  they 
saw  a  faint  phosphorescent  pallor  away  over  the  water, 
and  the  Spawer  dreamed  he  said : 

"It  is  the  moon.    Let  's  see  it  rise." 

So  they  dreamed  themselves  on  to  another  seat,  and  sat 
together  and  watched  the  moon  push  its  red  rim,  like  the 
edge  of  a  new  penny,  above  the  misty  horizon.  And  they 
watched  it  turn  to  gilt  as  it  rose  and  threw  aside  its  veil  of 
mist,  and  mount  up  at  last  like  a  beautiful  goddess  with  a 
fair  white  body.  They  dreamed  themselves  back  to  the 
old  bench  once  more,  at  the  head  of  the  zigzag  steps,  cut 
in  the  face  of  the  cliff  for  descent  to  the  beach. 


232  THE  POST-GIRL 

"Let  us  sit  down  here  a  bit,"  the  Spawer  said ;  and  they 
dreamed  they  seated  themselves. 

The  eye  of  Farnborough  looked  out  searchingly  for  the 
bench,  and  found  it  at  last,  with  this  twain  on  it,  and  said 
"Aha!"  and  winked  itself  out  again.  In  the  growing 
light  of  the  moon  the  girl's  silvery  face  shone  forth  from 
the  shimmering  mist  like  a  planet.  Was  he  going  to  tell 
her  here  what  he  had  to  say  ?  .  .  . 

Or  was  he  going  to  wind  his  arms  about  her  and  kiss 
her,  kiss  her,  kiss  her  ?  Would  she  resent  ?  or  would  she 
melt  into  his  embrace  like  a  drop  of  water  in  strong  wine  ? 
Ah,  torture  of  temptation.  St.  Anthony  scarce  suffered 
by  comparison  with  this.  The  moon,  the  sea,  the  vast- 
ness  of  the  night,  the  stars,  the  winding  mist,  the  exalta- 
tion—rising up  like  fumes  from  their  communion  of  this 
day — were  all  commingled  in  his  soul,  making  his  emo- 
tions infinite.  He  was  a  poor  weak  mortal,  suffering  the 
Olympian  passion  of  a  god.  One  moment  his  arms  were 
almost  about  her— though  he  never  stirred.  The  next  he 
was  holding  up  his  purpose  like  a  burning  crucifix  before 
his  passion's  eyes  .  .  .  and  all  the  while  the  girl  sat  with  her 
face  to  the  moon,  and  he  with  his  face  sideways  upon  hers. 

Then  the  prolonged  silence  woke  the  girl  to  a  sense  of 
something  impending — that  sense,  so  fine  and  subtle  in 
her  sex,  that  tells  it,  by  one  quick  touch,  as  of  an  antenna, 
what  man  must  exercise  all  the  processes  of  his  reason 
to  discover. 

"Shall  we  ...  be  going  back?"  she  suggested,  part 
rising,  with  a  tentative  hand  upon  the  seat,  for  she  felt 
the  silence  as  the  dangerous  filaments  of  a  web  that  was 
being  woven  about  her  for  some  sort  of  captivity. 

"Oh  ...  if  you  are  tired  of  this  .  .  ."  he  responded. 


THE  POST-GIRL  233 

"I  am  not  tired  of  it,"  she  said. 

"Let  's  stay  a  little  longer,  then,"  he  proposed.  "Shall 
we?" 

"If  you  like  .  .  ."  the  girl  said. 

The  submissive  rustle  of  her  sinking  back  sounded  like 
a  sigh.  They  were  very  dreamy  the  two  of  them. 

And  again  the  temptation  of  St.  Anthony  commenced. 
What  devils  were  struggling  for  possession  of  him? 
Why  was  he  delaying  matters  ?  Every  moment  threw  the 
girl  more  upon  his  hands.  He  had  only  to  drop  his  voice, 
to  whisper,  to  put  out  his  dream  arms,  to  enfold  her,  to 
stifle  her  lips  under  dream  kisses.  .  .  .  And  with  what 
object  this? 

Ah! 

Love  is  no  analyst;  does  not  profess  to  be;  does  not 
want  to  be.  Pure  love  and  love  unworthy  are  one  and  the 
same  at  the  crisis.  Whether  the  flame  is  the  flame  of  an 
evil  incendiary  or  the  spontaneous  flame  of  pure  affinity 
...  it  is  all  one  when  it  burns.  She  was  there ;  there  by 
his  side.  There  to  be  taken  ...  or  there  to  be  left. 
Should  he  take  her  ?  Should  he  leave  her  ?  And  while  he 
temporised  thus  with  the  devils,  before  ceding  the  keys  of 
his  inner  soul  .  .  .  the  girl  was  on  her  feet  again. 

"Perhaps  we  ought  to  be  going  .  .  .  don't  you  think  ?" 

Fool  that  he  was.  The  moment  was  by  again.  This 
was  no  time  for  his  arm. 

"Plainly  .  .  .  you  are  in  a  hurry  to  be  rid  of  me." 
His  laugh  was  infectiously  frank  and  free.  "Am  I  such 
poor  company  ?" 

"It  's  growing  late,"  the  girl  said,  evading  the  dan- 
gerous quicksand  of  his  question.  "I  'm  afraid  .  .  . 
they  '11  be  wondering  what  's  got  me,  at  home." 


234  THE  POST-GIRL 

"Ah,  is  it  such  a  naughty  girl  as  that  ?  Don't  they  trust 
her?" 

"They  don't  know  where  I  am.    I  did  n't  tell  them." 

"Do  you  always  tell  them?" 

"Not  always.  .  .  ." 

"Good  girl.  She  shall  have  a  white  mark  for  telling 
the  truth." 

"But  .  .  .  this  afternoon  I  did  n't  know  .  .  .  that  I 
was  coming  here.  They  may  be  anxious." 

"Suppose  we  walk  as  far  as  the  other  seat  before  going 
back.  Would  that  make  them  very,  very  anxious  ?" 

"Perhaps  we  might  walk  as  far  as  that  ...  if  you 
wish." 

And  they  walked — a  whole  legion  of  devils  in  attend- 
ance upon  the  man.  The  searching  eye,  gazing  keenly 
along  the  cliff  from  seat  to  seat,  found  them  once  more 
at  the  second,  and  blinked  knowingly.  "The  old,  old 
comedy,"  it  told  itself.  But  for  all  that,  it  was  not  quite 
the  old,  old  comedy  of  the  true  Shippus  sort.  The  devils 
were  practically  in  possession  of  the  dream-Spawer's  soul, 
but  the  dream-Spawer  was  so  completely  detached  from 
the  real  Spawer's  body  that  no  physical  manifestation 
took  place.  The  dream-Spawer,  floating  to  and  fro  above 
the  small,  pitiful,  carnal  presentment,  like  a  balloon  in 
oscillation,  wound  dream  arms  about  the  girl,  pressed 
dream  kisses  upon  her  lips,  felt  her  own  dream  arms  wind 
celestially  about  his  neck;  suffocated  all  remorse,  all 
scruples,  all  purpose,  all  resolution,  beneath  kisses  soft 
and  seductive  as  the  roseate  clouds  of  a  July  sunset  .  .  . 
but  there  was  no  contact  with  the  earthly  Spawer.  All 
this  the  vast  dream-Spawer  did,  but  the  small  earthly 
Spawer  beneath  stood  still  and  looked  at  the  sea. 


THE  POST-GIRL  235 

And  a  little  later  the  searching  eye  from  Farnborough, 
stealing  a  sly  glimpse  at  the  second  seat,  said  a  sudden 
"Hello!"  and  gazed  in  unconcealed,  wide-open  surprise. 
"H'm !"  it  reflected,  in  a  tone  of  considerable  disappoint- 
ment. "So  they  've  gone  at  last.  Sorry  I  could  n't  see 
the  end  of  that  business.  Wonder  where  they  are  now." 

But  it  had  other  little  episodes  to  keep  its  eye  upon — 
Merensea,  Farnborough,  and  even  Spathorpe  wa^ — and 
could  not  afford  to  waste  time  in  useless  regrets. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  crisis  was  over,  but  the  danger  of  relapse  re- 
mained. The  dream  had  not  been  broken,  it  had 
merely  been  prolonged.  Slowly  or  suddenly,  the  awaken- 
ing was  bound  to  come.  Every  step  of  the  homeward  road 
that  they  took  was  unwinding  their  dream  like  a  skein  of 
worsted.  And  now,  incredulous  as  it  may  seem,  with  the 
homeward  end  In  view,  the  Spawer  recommenced  to  apply 
himself,  by  a  kind  of  feverish  rote,  to  the  preparation  of 
the  task  that  he  had  been  so  ready  to  cast  down. 

They  passed  the  group  of  cottages  where— ages  and 
ages  ago,  one  blazing  August  afternoon— they  had  called 
to  visit  a  dying  man.  He  would  be  dead  now.  The 
Spawer  had  troubled  his  last  moments  with  a  hymn-tune 
on  a  cacophonous  harmonium  that  emitted  a  discordant 
clamor  like  a  flock  of  geese  in  full  prayer;  and  the  girl 
had  read  him  a  chapter  out  of  St.  Mark — or  was  it 
Matthew  or  Luke  ? — John  perhaps.  What  a  pious,  smug- 
faced  fellow  he  had  felt  himself  in  those  days.  Almost 
fit  for  heaven.  And  in  these!  He  gazed,  with  the  girl, 
at  the  little  yellow  square  of  light  as  they  passed,  that 
showed  where  the  scene  had  taken  place,  and  thought  of 
Now  and  Then.  All  the  air  was  saturated  with  moon- 
light. It  looked  too  thick  to  breathe.  A  great  exhalation 
rose  up  from  the  pores  of  the  earth,  tremulous  as  a 
mystic  bridal- veil  worn  on  the  brow  of  Nature.  The 
hedges  swooned  away  on  either  side  of  them.  The  sky 
drooped  dizzily.  Sounds,  filtered  and  languorous,  perco- 


THE  POST-GIRL  237 

lated  through  the  supernatural  stillness,  with  a  strange 
distinctness  and  purity.  The  cries  of  children  at  play, 
robbed  of  all  earthly  meaning  and  wondrously  tranquil- 
lised,  as  though  uttered  from  the  far-away  abode  of  the 
blest;  the  barking  of  dogs;  the  call  of  shepherds;  the 
coughing  of  sheep ;  the  lowing  of  cattle ;  the  unexpected 
cry  of  birds ;  the  beating  of  metal  on  some  distant  anvil, 
like  the  ringing  of  an  angelus  bell;  the  slamming  of 
remote  gates— all  spiritualised  and  purified,  as  though 
they  came  from  one  world,  and  these  two  occupied  an- 
other. There  was  a  melancholy  and  solitude  about  the 
earth  that  made  them  feel  as  though  they  were  among 
the  shades;  as  though  they  were  dead  (very  peacefully), 
and  the  sun  would  never  rise  upon  hard  realities  again ; 
but  as  though,  from  now  henceforth  through  eternity, 
their  souls  might  wander  in  misty  moonlight. 

And  still  they  walked,  and  still  he  had  not  told  her. 
Still  his  soul  was  divided  in  conflict  between  the  desire  to 
relapse  himself  to  the  dream  and  the  necessity  to  meet 
that  promissory  I.O.U.  of  honor  which  he  had  given  to 
himself.  All  the  time  he  was  practising  overtures ;  trying 
phrases  in  his  mind  by  which  he  could  approach  the  sub- 
ject casually,  without  allowing  the  girl  to  perceive  the 
degraded  tortuous  trail  over  which  he  had  been  crawling 
to  it  on  his  moral  belly  all  this  morning,  and  all  this  after- 
noon, and  all  this  evening.  From  the  thick  moonlight,  as 
they  walked,  other  shades  detached  themselves  of  a  sud- 
den, as  though  they  had  but  that  moment  been  fashioned 
out  of  the  tremulous  mist,  met  them  walking  more 
slowly,  and  were  absorbed  into  the  mist  again  on  the 
Shippus  side  behind  them,  like  ink-spots  in  blotting- 
paper.  Silent  couples,  walking  wordless  and  sometimes 


238  THE  POST- GIRL 

apart,  but  wrapped  in  their  own  amorous  atmosphere, 
and  always  with  that  strange,  lingering  communion  of 
step,  that  concentration  of  purpose,  as  though  a  magnet 
were  drawing  them  forward  in  slumber.  And  already, 
here  and  there,  through  the  hedges  and  through  branches 
of  distant  trees  and  in  the  moonlit  sky,  were  gleaming  the 
dull  yellow  of  blind-drawn  casements  and  the  scintillating 
beams  of  naked  lamps  that  betokened  Ullbrig. 

And  still  he  had  not  told  her. 

A  bat,  fluttering  blindly  over  the  dusky  hedgerow  and 
steering  itself  erratically  on  its  course  like  an  uncertain 
cyclist,  flew  almost  into  the  girl's  face  and  wheeled  off 
abruptly,  so  that  she  felt  the  waft  of  its  wing  on  her 
cheek  and  gave  a  little  cry  of  surprise. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you,  dear  girl?"  The 
Spawer  turned  quickly  at  the  sound.  "You  have  n't 
twisted  your  foot  ?" 

"No,  no."  The  girl  held  up  a  face  of  reassurance  in 
the  moonlight.  "It  's  nothing  .  .  .  only  a  bat." 

"And  what  did  the  naughty  bat  do  to  her  to  frighten 
her  so?" 

"It  did  n't  frighten  me  really.  I  thought  it  was  going 
to  fly  in  my  face.  It  startled  me  at  first  .  .  .  that  's  all." 

"It  was  a  bad,  wicked  bat  to  fly  in  her  face  and  startle 
her  at  first."  He  took  hold  of  her  arm.  At  the  touch  of 
that  round,  warm,  live  member  all  the  blood  in  her  body 
seemed  to  jump  to  issue  with  his,  and  combine,  as  though 
one  great  pulsing  artery  fed  them  both.  "Come  along," 
he  said  lightly,  striving  with  his  voice  to  palliate  the 
tremulous  danger  of  their  union.  "I  won't  have  this  dear 
girl  frightened.  I  will  take  care  of  her." 

She  made  no  demur,  either  to  his  words  or  to  his 


THE  POST-GIRL  239 

touch,  but  came  along  by  his  side ;  so  warm,  so  wonder- 
fully alive,  so  spiritually  silent. 

"Will  she  trust  him  to  take  care  of  her?"  he  asked  her 
softly.  And  after  a  moment:  "Will  she?"  for  she  had 
not  answered  a  word.  She  said  "Yes"  very  faintly,  with 
the  faintness  of  happiness. 

"It  is  a  good  girl,"  he  said  caressingly,  "...  and  she 
shall  be  well  taken  care  of."  He  pressed  confidence  into 
that  supple  trunk  of  arm.  "But  she  must  try  and  be  as 
kind  to  me  as  she  can  .  .  .  now."  He  waited  to  give 
her  the  opportunity  of  asking  him,  Why?  but  she  did 
not.  She  was  in  the  ethereal  state  that  takes  everything 
for  granted.  "Because  .  .  .  well  .  .  .  because  she 
did  n't  believe  me  this  afternoon.  She  thought  I  was 
only  telling  tarradiddles.  Now  did  n't  she?  But  it 
was  n't  tarradiddles  at  all,  at  all.  It  was  something  far 
worse  than  tarradiddles." 

He  felt  the  sudden  thrill  of  awakening  alarm  run 
through  her;  but  still  she  said  no  word,  asked  no  ques- 
tions, left  everything  to  him. 

"What  does  the  good  little  girl  say?"  he  asked  her- 
on, so  lightly !  With  his  hand  on  her  arm,  with  the  pain 
of  parting  quite  merged  in  the  warm  consolatory  current 
of  their  common  blood,  penance  seemed  a  light,  a  mean- 
ingless thing.  What  was  departure  but  a  delightful  occa- 
sion for  kisses  and  comfort  .  .  .  till  the  dread  mo- 
ment came?  The  good  little  girl  trembled  a  little,  he 
thought,  but  said  nothing.  "Does  n't  she  say  she  's  sorry  ? 
Come,  come.  Surely  she  's  not  such  a  heartless  little  girl 
as  not  to  say  she  's  sorry  ?" 

This  time  the  girl  twisted  a  swift,  startled  face  of  in- 
quiry towards  his  own  half-bantering  smile. 


24o  THE  POST-GIRL 

"I  thought  .  .  ."  she  began,  and  stopped  with  the 
abruptness  of  fear. 

"Yes,  yes;  I  know  you  did,"  he  laughed.  "I  told  you 
so.  You  thought  I  was  just  telling  a  great  big  fib,  did  n't 
you?  .  .  .  because  I  did  n't  want  to  bind  myself  to  the 
ordeal  of  any  more  harmonium." 

"You  don't  mean  .  .  .  you  're  going  away  ?" 

"Should  you  be  very  sorry  ?"  he  asked  her. 

She  did  not  speak,  but  seemed,  in  the  moonlight,  to  be 
looking  at  him  as  though  she  were  trying  to  absorb  his 
meaning,  to  see  if  there  were  any  other  sense  below  the 
surface  of  his  words. 

"Are  you  really  .  .  .  going?"  she  asked  him,  after  a 
while. 

The  intentness  of  her  look  and  the  wondrous  depth  of 
her  great  eyes — stirred  now  to  troubled  speculation — sent 
his  purpose  reeling  aslant  again. 

"Ah !"  He  gave  her  arm  a  protesting  squeeze.  "She  's 
not  going  to  give  her  sorrow  away  until  she  's  quite  sure 
there  's  genuine  necessity  for  it.  She  's  a  very  wise  and 
very  cautious  little  woman.  She  wants  good  security 
for  any  small  advances  of  commiseration.  If  I  did  n't 
know  for  certain  that  her  name  was  what  it  is  ...  I 
should  be  inclined  to  think  they  called  her  Rachel  or  Leah 
or  Abigail  or  Zipporah — with  something  of  Benjamin 
or  Isaacs  or  Ishmael  about  it.  Never  mind.  I  will  trust 
her  with  my  gold  watch,  and  she  shall  give  me  what  she 
likes  on  it.  Yes,  little  Israelite  ...  it  was  the  truth  that 
this  unfortunate  Gentile  spoke  this  afternoon.  He  knows 
it  was  .  .  .  because  he  does  n't  speak  it  so  often  but  that 
he  can  tell  the  taste.  He  's  been  loafing  about  happily 
for  a  long  time  .  .  .  but  the  eternal  policeman  Des- 


THE  POST-GIRL  241 

tiny  has  given  him  the  office  to  move  on,  and  it 
seems  he  '11  have  to  move.  It  's  no  use  getting  cross 
with  the  law.  Is  she  sorry  for  him  now,  this  little 
Usurer?" 

"But  you  're  not  going  away  ...  at  once  ?"  she  asked 
him,  in  a  startled  voice. 

"My  gracious!  What  an  out-and-out  extortioner  she 
is,"  the  Spawer  exclaimed,  with  an  assumption  of  admir- 
ing tribute.  "She  won't  advance  me  a  cent  of  sympathy 
until  she  knows  the  term  of  the  loan.  If  I  say  I  'm  going 
at  once,  she  '11  give  me  a  better  price  of  pity  than  if  the 
advance  is  to  drag  on  over  an  indefinite  period  of  weeks." 
He  made  pretence  to  throw  his  chin  in  the  air  and  laugh 
with  pleasure.  "Honestly,  little  Rebecca,"  he  told  her, 
looking  down  once  more,  "I  don't  want  to  humbug  a 
penny  more  out  of  you  than  you  think  you  ought  to  give. 
At  present  I  can't  say  when  I  go  ...  whether  I  have  to 
go  to-morrow,  the  day  after,  the  day  after  that  ...  or 
next  week  even.  It  all  depends  on  a  letter.  I  'm  a  con- 
demned man,  under  indefinite  reprieve."  He  paused  for 
a  moment,  balancing  whether  he  should  say  the  next  thing 
on  his  mind.  "As  a  matter  of  fact,  little  woman.  .  .  ." 
He  turned  his  face  towards  her  with  the  engaging  air  of 
candor  that  seemingly  could  not  deny  itself.  - ".  .  .  It  's 
no  use  trying  to  stuff  you.  You  're  too  sharp  to  take  a 
dummy  watch  with  the  works  out,  or  a  gilt  sixpence. 
So  ...  as  it  's  not  a  bit  of  good  trying  to  be  anything 
else  ...  I  '11  be  frank  with  you.  I  '11  tell  you  a  secret. 
It  's  a  big  one— all  about  myself.  Do  you  think  you  can 
keep  a  secret  ?" 

"I  '11  try,"  said  the  girl,  with  her  eyes  fixed  apprehen- 
sively on  his  lips. 


242  THE  POST-GIRL 

"Well,  then  .  .  ."  he  said.  "I  'm  in  your  hands.  I  'm 
going  to  do  a  very  silly  thing." 

Did  a  tremor  of  apprehensive  pain,  like  the  very  ghost 
of  a  shiver,  run  up  the  arm  that  he  held?  or  was  it  his 
own  mind,  that  through  a  feeling  of  sympathy  sought  to 
attribute  its  knowledge  to  hers  ? 

"You  '11  think  me  a  frightful  ass,  no  doubt,  when  I  tell 
you  what  it  is.  Can  you  guess  ?" 

The  girl  seemed  to  concentrate  her  look  upon  him,  but 
whether  the  true  answer  had  flashed  across  her  mind,  or 
whether  the  flash  of  divination  merely  served  to  dazzle  her 
and  make  her  ignorance  still  darker,  so  that  she  looked 
for  enlightenment  from  him,  he  could  not  tell ;  but  she 
said  "No,"  and  gave  up  his  riddle  with  a  shake  of  the 
head. 

"I  wish  you  'd  guessed,"  he  said.  "It  throws  it  all  on 
to  my  shoulders.  Now  I  shall  have  to  hoist  the  confes- 
sion up  like  my  own  portmanteau,  and  perhaps  look  a 
bigger  ass  than  ever,  with  my  knees  all  bent  under  it. 
Anyhow,  here  goes— one,  two,  three  .  .  .  I  'm  going  to 
be  married. 

"Well?"  he  inquired,  after  a  pause.  "Won't  you  say 
you  're  sorry  now?  It  's  all  my  own  silly  fault,  I  know, 
and  I  deserved  to  be  married  for  being  such  a  fool  .  .  . 
but  still— can't  you  squeeze  one  little  drop  of  pity  for 
me?" 

"Are  you  really  going  to  be  married?"  asked  the  girl. 
She  spoke  in  a  very  level  and,  it  struck  him,  a  very  un- 
emotional voice. 

"Great  goodness,  little  woman,"  he  exclaimed,  "what 
an  unbelieving  Israelite  you  are !  Do  you  think  I  do  a 
wholesale  and  export  trade  in  tarradiddles  ?  You  did  n't 


THE  POST- GIRL  243 

use  to  suspect  me  before,  even  when  I  told  you  I  was  a 
great  composer.  Won't  you  believe  me  now,  when  I  'm 
willing  to  confess  myself  an  awful  idiot?  On  my  word 
and  conscience,  then  .  .  .  I  'm  going  to  be  married." 

"I  hope  .  .  .  you  '11  be  very,  very  happy,"  said  the 
girl. 

For  her,  he  thought  the  words  and  the  wish  somewhat 
prosaic.  At  this  moment  she  ladced  one  of  those  beau- 
tiful little  emotional  touches  with  which  she  could  illu- 
minate the  simplest  saying  to  poetry.  Her  voice,  soft 
though  it  was,  and  so  full  of  sympathetic  interest,  yet 
struck  him  with  a  painful  feeling  of  matter-of-fact.  He 
and  his  marriage  seemed  suddenly  stuck  up  in  hard,  un- 
poetic  affirmation,  like  the  tin  price-shield  in  a  pork-pie. 
The  subtlety  of  artistic  suggestion  was  altogether  lack- 
ing, all  the  romance  was  gone.  The  thing  he  had  wished 
delicately  hinting  at,  a  mysterious  romantic  melody  for 
celli  con  sordini,  to  suit  the  orchestra  of  the  evening  and 
of  their  mood,  was  become  a  commonplace  tune  for  a 
drunken  cornet  to  play  outside  a  public-house  door  on 
Saturday  night.  All  at  once  he  began  to  feel  that  the 
coverlet  of  dreams  was  fast  slipping  away  from  him. 
The  moonlight  was  clearer :  the  hedges  harder  in  outline. 
In  spite  of  the  hand  that  lay  on  the  girl's  arm,  as  though 
to  retain  that  part  of  the  dream  at  any  rate,  they  were 
no  longer  spiritually  united.  There  was  an  intangible, 
invisible,  impalpable  something  between  them  as  keen  as 
the  sword  of  flame  at  the  Gate  of  the  Garden  of  Eden. 
Like  many  another  martyr  before  him,  in  his  crucial  hour 
the  roseate  illusions  that  had  fortified  him  to  his  purpose 
were  floating  away  from  him  now,  and  leaving  him  only 
his  actual  senses  to  realise  externals  and  apprise  him  of 


244  THE  POST-GIRL 

the  horrible  pangs  of  suffering.  Before,  he  had  been 
temporising  at  the  stake;  trying  the  rope  to  see  how  its 
bondage  felt,  without  allowing  the  cruel  loops  to  cut  into 
his  flesh;  posturing  as  martyr  before  the  girl  in  mind 
only— but  now  he  had  made  the  girl  a  participant  of  his 
purpose. 

And  the  worst  of  it  was  that  he  must  profess  that  the 
parting  meant  nothing  so  very  much  to  either  of  them. 
He  must  not  insult  the  girl  by  suggesting  that  his  going 
affected  only  her — that  she  would  deeply  feel  the  loss  of 
him  who  felt  her  loss  so  little  that  he  was  leaving  her  for 
another.  And  yet !  And  yet ! 

O  Lord!  And  yet!  All  his  present  life  was  but  a 
meaningless  series  of  disjunctive  conjunctions;  words  of 
contingency  and  speculation;  ifs,  buts,  supposes,  perad- 
ventures,  perchances,  and  the  like. 

"I  say  .  .  .  you  're  very  silent,  little  woman,"  he  re- 
marked, after  a  while.  "Don't  be  hard  on  a  fellow  be- 
cause he  's  down  on  his  luck.  You  're  not  offended  with 
me,  are  you  ?" 

"Offended  with  you?"  she  said.  "Oh,  no,  indeed. 
What  should  make  me  offended  .  .  .  with  you?" 

He  made  believe  to  laugh. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  what  should.  Only  .  .  .  perhaps 
because  you  're  disappointed  to  find  that  I  'm  just  as  much 
an  ass  as  any  other  man.  Oh,  music  's  nothing  to  do  with 
it,  believe  me.  A  man  may  play  like  an  angel  on  the  piano 
— as  I  do — and  yet  play  as  giddy  a  goat  as  any  on  four 
legs,  in  real  life,  as  I  've  done.  But  what  's  done  is  done. 
I  was  younger  in  those  days,  perhaps.  All  the  same,  I  'm 
not  too  old  for  a  little  sympathy.  Say  something  to  me, 
won't  you  ?" 


THE  POST- GIRL  245 

"I  hardly  know  what  to  say,"  said  the  girl.  "I  was 
trying  to  think." 

"Say  something  to  give  me  a  little  courage,  then,"  he 
suggested ;  "something  to  strengthen  my  knees  a  little. 
You  don't  know  how  white-livered  and  weak-kneed  it 
makes  a  man  feel  when  the  marriage  noose  is  round  his 
neck,  and  he  seems  to  hear  the  bell  tolling,  and  sees  the 
chaplain  getting  out  his  little  prayer-book,  and  knows  his 
hour  's  approaching  to  be  launched  into  eternity." 

Even  to  himself  he  recognised  how  beautifully  his 
words  were  serving  the  purpose  of  concealing  truth  with 
truth.  No  girl  on  earth — certainly  not  the  girl  by  his 
side— could  have  probed  his  utterances,  in  that  candid 
voice  of  his,  and  said  :  "You  are  speaking  the  truth.  You 
are  going  to  this  wedding  like  a  weak-kneed  cur,  and  all 
the  time  you  are  trying  to  cling  to  me  for  comfort  and 
consolation — and  yet  trying  not  to  demean  yourself  in 
my  eyes  by  letting  me  know  it.  I  am  the  girl  you  love, 
and  you  are  trying  to  experience  the  pleasure  of  my  love 
vicariously;  by  proxy,  as  it  were.  If  I  were  in  the  other 
one's  place,  and  she  were  in  mine,  not  all  the  waters  of 
the  world  would  keep  you  apart  from  her." 

No,  no.  His  smiling,  semi-serious  words  were  like  a 
rosewood  veneer  over  deal  wood,  and  there  was  no  pene- 
trating them. 

They  were  close  on  Hesketh's  corner  now.  He  had 
told  her  all,  and  he  had  told  her  nothing.  Words — hun- 
dreds, thousands,  millions  of  words  were  still  wanting  to 
make  the  parting  as  it  should  be. 

And  all  at  once  he  felt  the  power  of  the  dream  return- 
ing ;  the  impulse  to  take  the  girl  in  his  arms ;  to  kiss  her ; 
to  tell  her  that  he  was  but  jesting,  and  that  he  loved  her 


246  THE  POST-GIRL 

above  everything  and  everybody  in  the  world;  pawn  all 
his  future,  with  its  honor  and  duty,  for  the  pleasure  of 
that  one  glorious  avowal.  How  could  he  let  her  depart 
out  of  that  empty  leave-taking  without  a  word,  a  sign, 
when  his  heart  was  like  a  vast  sea,  and  she  the  spirit 
moving  on  its  waters?  Even  as  he  thought  of  it  his 
fingers  tightened  possessively  upon  the  girl's  warm  arm ; 
his  lips  dropped  persuasively;  the  words  seemed  to  rise 
to  his  mouth  as  easily  as  bubbles  to  the  surface  of  water, 
for  the  mere  thinking. 

"You  have  not  said  .  .  .  you  are  sorry  I  am  going 
yet,"  he  told  her.  "Are  you  sorry  ?" 

Did  the  girl  tremble  ?  Her  face  was  turned  away  from 
him.  Was  she  laughing  or  was  she  crying? 

"Are  you  sorry?"  he  asked  her  again  pleadingly,  con- 
veying by  inflection  what  he  wished  her  answer  to  be ;  his 
lips  lower  towards  her  still. 

"Yes  .  .  ." 

He  caught  the  word,  but  it  was  more  like  a  shiver — as 
though  all  the  tissues  of  her  body  had  conspired  to  give  it 
tremulous  birth,  like  the  whispering  of  a  tree.  Her  head 
was  still  turned  from  him. 

"Very  sorry ?"  he  pressed  her.  "Tell  me.  See;  lift  up 
your  face  .  .  ."  His  own  face  sank  lower,  as  low  as  the 
hat  brim.  ".  .  .  You  are  not  crying?" 

He  released  his  hold  of  the  girl's  arm,  slid  his  hand 
about  her  and  drew  her  to  him  by  the  waist.  Into  that 
warm  socket  she  yielded  submissively,  like  a  child  into  its 
cradle.  She  was  his  now  ;  his  in  all  but  the  asking.  They 
were  still  walking,  but  their  walk  was  the  ghostly  stepless 
progress  of  a  mist  moving  across  the  meadows.  The 
dream  was  back  again,  and  the  gloriousness  of  it.  He  put 


THE  POST- GIRL  247 

out  his  left  hand,  with  the  basket  hanging  from  its  wrist, 
and  took  the  girl's  soft  warm  chin  to  pull  it  gently 
towards  his  lips. 

"Pam  ..."  he  said. 

Out  of  the  yellow  moonlight,  or  out  of  the  denser  sub- 
stance of  the  hedges,  or  out  of  the  earth  at  their  feet,  was 
shaped  suddenly  the  motionless  figure  of  a  man.  Whether 
he  had  been  there  from  the  first,  or  had  come  there  by  ap- 
proach, or  had  overtaken  them,  appeared  not.  As  though 
he  were  a  black  pestle  in  an  alchemist's  mortar,  he  seemed 
deposed  there,  without  movement  or  volition  of  his  own. 
At  sight  of  him  all  the  dream  was  precipitated  in  sediment 
of  actuality,  that  fell  down  to  the  ground  in  fine,  imper- 
ceptible residue,  like  the  shattered  particles  of  a  bubble. 
The  Spawer's  arm  slid  to  his  side,  and  they  dropped 
apart  several  paces,  guiltily. 

"It  is  the  schoolmaster,"  Pam  said,  awakening  out  of 
the  sleep  with  a  voice  of  sudden  terror,  under  her  breath. 
"...  I  must  be  going." 

The  Spawer  commenced  to  hum,  and  craning  his  neck 
up  to  the  moon  as  though  he  were  aware  of  this  orb  for 
the  first  time,  made  pleasant  allusion  in  a  clear,  uncom- 
promising voice  to  "A  jolly  fine  night."  The  man  was  on 
Pam's  side  of  the  road.  As  they  reached  him  the  girl 
stopped. 

"They  have  been  looking  for  you,"  the  man  said. 

"I  am  here,"  Pam  answered,  in  her  old  clear  voice. 

The  man  did  not  move.  He  remained  there  motion- 
less, seeming  to  take  the  words  as  an  intimation  that  she 
would  accompany  him.  Pam  held  out  her  hand  for  the 
basket  that  the  Spawer  was  swinging  with  an  assumption 
of  negligence  and  ease. 


248  THE  POST-GIRL 

"Thank  you,"  she  said. 

The  dark  figure  of  the  man  embarrassed  all  speech. 
The  Spawer  handed  the  basket  over  into  her  hands  with- 
out a  word. 

"And  the  serviette  .  .  ."  he  said,  drawing  it  from  his 
pocket. 

Pam  received  it  from  him  and  thanked  him  again. 

Then  there  was  a  slight  pause. 

"Good-night!"  she  said. 

"Good-night !" 

They  shook  hands  with  a  strange  and  ludicrous  polite- 
ness. 

Had  they  been  naughty  children,  and  this  stranger  the 
angry  parent  of  one  of  them,  they  could  not  have  parted 
under  a  deeper  cloud  of  ignominy  and  disgrace. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

"Good-night"  so  soullessly  inflected,  that  the  girl 
gave  to  the  Spawer  with  her  tepid  fingers  of  polite- 
ness, was  to  her  the  leave-taking  of  all  her  happiness.  In 
joy  she  was  an  orphan.  Her  heart  was  choking  her  as  she 
surrendered  herself  to  the  sombre  shadow  in  the  road- 
way; the  black  anchor  that  seemed  to  hold  her  fast  now 
at  the  end  of  an  iron  cable.  If  she  could  have  died  then, 
in  her  mingled  agony  and  shame,  sorrow,  mortification, 
and  sickening  despair,  she  would  have  wished  it.  For 
a  while  no  word  was  spoken.  She  and  the  gloomy  figure 
of  the  man  walked  towards  Ullbrig  together,  very  far 
apart,  without  looking  at  each  other,  almost  as  though 
they  were  ignoring  each  other's  presence.  A  great  silent 
wall  of  division  rose  up  between  them,  a  barrier  of  dis- 
grace, on  the  shady  side  of  which  walked  Pam.  Through 
all  this  silence  was  going  on  a  mighty  struggle.  The  man, 
with  throbbing  neck  and  veins  of  whipcord  in  his  fore- 
head, was  desperately  striving  to  find  his  pretext  to  scale 
the  barrier  or  break  through  and  speak  to  the  girl  on 
ground  of  common  understanding,  but  a  sense  of  shame 
for  what  he  had  seen  withheld  him.  Great  waves  of 
heat  and  cold  swept  him  alternately.  That  which  he  had 
witnessed  chilled  him  with  a  horrible  fear  for  the  terrors 
of  that  which  he  had  not  witnessed,  and  yet  fired  him  to 
torrid  anguish.  That  embrace  that  had  struck  him  sickly 
to  stone  in  the  roadway  .  .  .  was  it  the  beginning,  or  was 
it  the  end?  Had  the  girl  been  playing  him  false  all 

249 


250  THE  POST-GIRL 

through?  With  the  magnified  doubts  of  his  class  con- 
cerning the  evil  magnetism  of  musicians  and  the  slack- 
ness of  their  scruples,  his  heart  was  wrung  with  horrible 
apprehensions  as  to  how  far  the  Spawer  possessed  this 
power,  and  how  far  he  had  used  it.  Was  this  girl— whom 
he  loved  with  a  pure,  blind,  white-heat  passion— was  she, 
while  scorning  his  approaches,  so  deeply  infatuated  with 
the  visitor  from  the  Cliff  that  she  coveted  rather  to  be  the 
temporary  toy  of  the  one  than  the  honored  wife  of  the 
other?  The  doubt  stung  him  to  the  quick.  He  wanted 
to  speak,  yet  dared  not  for  fear  his  words  might  betray 
this  thorny  crown  of  his  torture.  Oh,  what  he  would 
have  given  to  know  the  history  of  that  walk  from  Ship- 
pus  to  Ullbrig;  what  would  he  not  have  given  to  be  able 
to  wipe  it  out  of  all  their  lives  and  memories  as  though 
it  had  never  been. 

"Let  me  ...  carry  your  basket,"  he  said  awkwardly, 
after  a  while.  He  tried  to  round  his  voice  mentally  be- 
fore using  it,  to  file  down  its  roughness  of  emotion ;  but 
it  came  out  hoarse  and  unequal  in  spite  of  him. 

To  the  girl,  troubled  with  her  own  personal  misery 
and  the  gnawing  misery  of  speculation  as  to  how  much 
of  her  weakness  he  had  witnessed,  and  what  he  was 
thinking  of  her,  and  the  acute  irksomeness  of  his  pres- 
ence at  this  crisis  of  her  life,  when  she  sought  only  soli- 
tude, the  mere  relinquishing  of  the  basket  seemed  like  an- 
other surrender.  She  clung  to  it  in  spirit,  as  though  it 
were  a  straw  on  the  black  waters  of  her  foundering. 

"It  is  nothing  .  .  .  thank  you,"  she  told  him.  "I  can 
carry  it." 

He  felt  the  resistance  to  his  offer,  and  the  motive  that 
urged  it,  and  the  blood  swept  up  about  his  head  again. 


THE  POST-GIRL  251 

The  girl,  though  she  did  not  look  at  him,  saw  the  hands 
go  up  to  his  throat. 

"You  were  .  .  .  not  carrying  it  ...  before,"  he  haz- 
arded. 

"We  are  so  near  home."  The  girl  hesitated,  and  there 
was  a  tremble  in  her  voice.  "You  may  carry  it,  if  you 
like,"  she  said,  and  handed  it  to  him. 

"Thank  you." 

He  took  it  from  her  with  an  awkward  scuffle  of  un- 
tutored politeness.  Even  as  he  felt  the  pride  of  the  pos- 
session he  felt  the  shame  and  degradation  of  it  too — to 
walk  by  the  side  of  her  as  the  Spawer  had  done ;  to  carry 
her  basket  as  the  Spawer  had  done ;  to  try  and  delude  his 
poor,  anguished  soul  with  these  fragments  of  a  banquet 
to  which  he  had  been  an  uninvited  spectator  (a  guest 
never),  and  make  himself  believe  he  was  in  some  sort  en- 
joying her  favor.  Ah,  poor  fool !  poor  fool !  By  his  side 
walked  the  phantom  figure  of  the  Spawer,  communing 
with  the  girl,  and  his  miserable  guard  of  flesh  and  blood 
was  powerless  to  prevent  it,  or  intercept  the  messages  of 
remembrance  passing  between  them.  Ah,  if  he  could; "if 
he  could.  All  his  life  was  bound  up  in  the  girl.  He  had 
wrestled  for  her  in  body  and  soul.  On  his  knees  he  had 
prayed  for  her,  begging  God  to  give  her  to  him,  to  incline 
her  heart,  to  soften  her,  to  pour  into  her  breast  the  grace 
to  love  him.  He  had  got  out  of  his  bed  to  pray  for  her 
in  the  sleepless  night-time  when  she  .  .  .  had  been 
dreaming- of  this  visitor,  perhaps  .  .  .  And  now. 

"Have  you  been  fair  to  me?"  he  asked  her  suddenly, 
in  a  low  drenched  voice.  The  words  rushed  up  to  his 
mouth  on  a  tide  of  hot  blood. 

The  girl  had  felt  the  imminence  of  the  attack.     She 


252  THE  POST-GIRL 

had  been,  in  spirit  at  least,  a  participant  of  the  man's 
agony;  had  felt  the  blood  rushing  up  again  and  again 
with  its  impulsion  of  speech. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked  faintly,  and  turned 
her  head  aside  momentarily,  as  though  to  the  gust  of  a 
strong  wind. 

"Have  you  been  fair  to  me  ?"  he  asked  her  again. 

For  very  fear  he  dared  not  alter  these  words  that  he 
had  once  uttered  and  was  sure  of,  lest  the  alteration 
might  involve  him  too  much. 

"I  have  not  been  unfair  ..."  she  said. 

She  put  out  the  defence  like  an  arm  that  almost  recog- 
nises the  justice  of  the  blow  aimed,  and  makes  no  real 
effort  to  ward  it. 

"You  have  been  very  unfair,"  he  said  hoarsely.  "You 
know  you  have  been  very  unfair.  Even  your  voice  be- 
trays you."  He  was  on  the  point  of  calling  upon  his  eyes 
for  corroboration  of  her  unfairness,  but  he  stopped  him- 
self with  an  effort  that  the  girl  heard  and  understood. 
"You  made  me  a  promise,"  he  said.  "One  night  .  .  . 
what  did  you  promise  ?" 

"It  was  n't  a  promise,"  the  girl  protested.  "I  never 
promised  you  anything.  I  told  you  I  dared  not  promise 
.  .  .  and  I  could  n't  promise  .  .  .  and  I  did  n't  promise." 

"It  was  a  promise,"  he  said  again.  "If  it  was  n't  a 
promise  ...  it  was  your  word,  and  I  trusted  your  word. 
You  said  there  was  no  bar  to  my  loving  you.  You  told 
me  .  .  .  and  you  know  you  told  me,  that  I  might  go  on 
loving  you,  and  try  to  win  .  .  .  your  esteem.  All  this 
time  I  have  been  believing  you  and  your  word.  .  .  .  Are 
you  going  to  tell  me  now  that  I  've  misjudged  you  ?" 

He  spoke  very  rapidly  and  jerkily  and  hoarsely,  as 


THE  POST-GIRL  253 

though  he  were  himself  ashamed  of  this  necessity  to  put 
his  thoughts  into  words  and  hear  them. 

"I  only  said  it  because  ...  it  was  because  you  pressed 
me  so  hard.  You  would  not  take  my  answer.  You 
looked  so  ill."  The  slow  stream  of  tears  was  trickling 
through  the  broken  pauses  of  her  speech.  "It  was  you 
that  put  the  words  into  my  mouth.  You  told  me  it  would 
kill  you  if  I  said  there  was  no  hope.  How  could  I  say 
there  was  no  hope  ?  I  could  n't ;  I  could  n't.  You  forced 
me  to  say  that  you  might  go  on  loving  me  .  .  .  but  I  told 
you  it  was  n't  a  promise." 

Her  tears  were  running  with  her  words  now.  She 
wept  for  herself  and  for  this  man.  The  thing  she  had 
been  dreading,  it  had  come  to  pass.  She  was  an  Ullbrig 
hypocrite,  a  deceiver,  a  faith-breaker,  an  actor  and  a 
worker  of  lies. 

Ah,  miserable  little  sinner,  whose  only  sin  perhaps,  had 
she  known  it,  was  the  sin  of  an  overflowing,  over-gener- 
ous heart  .  .  .  her  day  of  reckoning  was  upon  her  now, 
and  her  tears  were  bitter. 

They  walked  along  in  silence  for  a  step  or  two. 
Though  the  man  by  her  side  was  burning  to  burst  forth 
in  a  fiery  Etna  of  denunciation  and  reproach,  to  subju- 
gate her  and  gain  dominion  over  her  by  the  sheer  confla- 
gration of  righteous  anger,  he  dared  not,  lest  she  might 
admit  his  charges,  confess  herself  a  sinner,  and  own 
an  unconquerable  disregard  of  him.  To  be  allied  to  her 
by  an  indefinite  hope,  frail  as  a  silkworm's  thread,  was 
heavenly  compared  with  the  blank  severance  of  despair. 
He  was  a  retainer  upon  her  favor,  and  must  keep  his 
place.  What  authority  he  held,  to  assume  authority  over 
her,  came  from  her. 


254  THE  POST-GIRL 

"You  told  me  ...  I  might  love  you,"  he  said,  strain- 
ing his  voice  to  breaking  point  in  his  fierce  desire  to  hold 
it  steady  and  keep  its  control,  "...  that  there  was  no 
other  bar— no  other  bar.  Have  you  been  making  a  mock 
of  me  all  this  time  ?" 

"No,  no."  He  knew  the  girl's  two  hands  were  to- 
gether in  their  agony  of  protestation,  but  they  both  spoke 
with  their  faces  unturned,  each  looking  before  them  fix- 
edly. "Believe  anything  of  me  .  .  .  but  that,"  she 
begged  him.  "I  have  never  mocked  you.  I  would  never 
mock  you." 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then : 

"Are  you  .  .  .  making  a  mock  of  yourself?"  he  asked 
her. 

The  question  shook  her  first  like  a  wind,  and  then 
stilled  her  suddenly. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  she  asked  him. 

"Are  you  making  a  mock  of  yourself?" 

They  were  at  the  first  of  the  houses  now,  in  the  little 
high  street,  and  there  were  figures  moving  about  between 
them  and  the  Post  Office ;  figures  that  might  stop ;  figures 
that  might  speak;  figures  that  might  peer  into  her  tear- 
stained  face  when  the  light  of  some  yellow  window 
shone  on  it. 

"I  cannot  go  on  ...  like  this,"  she  said,  with  a  half- 
sob  and  a  shiver.  "I  'm  not  fit  to  meet  anybody.  Let  us 
turn  back." 

They  turned  back,  facing  the  moon.  The  girl  walked 
with  her  white,  troubled  face  set  before  her,  glistening 
under  its  tears,  like  a  second  moon.  The  man,  stealing 
one  covert  look  at  it,  saw  that  no  resumption  of  this  sub- 
ject was  likely  from  her  quarter.  She  was  in  the  clairvo- 


THE  POST-GIRL  255 

yant  state  of  trouble  that  would  have  led  her  to  Shippus 
again,  unchecked,  without  a  word. 

"You  say  you  have  not  made  a  mock  of  me,"  he  took 
up  again,  in  his  monotonous,  tightened  voice,  "...  but 
you  are  making  a  mock  of  somebody.  Who  is  it?  Is  it 
yourself?" 

"Why  am  I  making  a  mock  of  somebody?"  the  girl 
asked. 

"Is  it  fair  to  yourself?"  he  said,  and  his  voice  grew 
tighter  and  tighter,  "...  to  be  taking  walks  down  the 
Shippus  road  ...  at  night  .  .  .  with  a  stranger?  You 
know  .  .  .  what  sort  of  a  reputation  the  Shippus  road 
has  at  night-time.  You  know  what  sort  of  company  .  .  . 
you  are  likely  to  meet  .  .  .  what  sort  of  company  you 
have  met  to-night."  His  voice  so  constricted  about  his 
throat  that  it  seemed  like  to  strangle  him.  "Is  it  fair  to 
yourself  .  .  .  putting  me  out  of  the  question  altogether 
.  .  .  that  you  should  give  people  .  .  .  give  them  the  op- 
portunity of  saying  .  .  .  saying  things  about  you?" 

The  girl  had  no  answer  but  the  faster  flow  of  her  tears. 
She  knew  well  enough  that  he  had  spoken  no  more  than 
the  truth.  Judged  from  an  external  standpoint,  she 
looked  no  better  than  her  misguided  sisters — farm 
wenches  and  hinds'  lasses— that  wandered  to  their  shame 
by  the  hedgerows  under  the  shades  of  night.  And  for 
this,  and  all  her  other  delinquencies,  and  all  her  other 
sins,  unhappinesses,  and  penances  of  suffering  .  .  .  she 
wept. 

"I  think  too  much  of  you  .  .  .  ever  to  risk  bringing 
you  within  reach  of  people's  slanders.  I  would  rather  cut 
my  hand  off  ...  than  that  I  should  hear  you  spoken 
lightly  of.  To  me  ...  your  character  is  more  sacred 


256  THE  POST-GIRL 

than  my  own.  I  would  guard  it  with  my  life  if  need  be. 
But  what  is  it  ...  to  others?"  The  reins  of  his  passion 
slipped  his  grasp  a  little ;  the  girl's  tearful  endurance  en- 
couraged him  to  speak  more  forcibly.  "What  do  men  of 
towns  care  for  the  character  ...  of  a  girl?  They  come 
to-day  and  they  go  to-morrow.  What  does  it  matter  to 
them  whether  they  leave  shame  .  .  .  and  broken  hearts 
behind?  A  girl's  heart  is  a  plaything  for  them  .  .  .  and 
when  they  have  broken  it  ...  they  throw  it  aside. 
There  are  plenty  more  hearts  to  be  broken  in  the  big 
cities." 

Like  all  others  of  his  untraveled  kind,  he  had  the  wild, 
generic  idea  of  cities  and  of  the  large  places  of  the  earth 
as  being  seats  of  sin  fulness  and  iniquity.  Wickedness 
filled  them  and  saturated  the  dwellers  therein.  Outside 
Ullbrig,  and  the  little  bit  of  Yorkshire  contiguous  with 
which  he  was  acquainted,  the  rest  of  the  world  (of  which 
he  had  the  fleetingest  personal  knowledge)  was  Sodom 
and  Gomorrah.  All  the  men  who  came  from  afar,  and 
had  the  faint  traces  of  fashion  about  their  raiment,  were 
men  of  danger ;  ministers  of  the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the 
devil.  Perhaps,  in  his  own  narrow  track  of  ignorant  big- 
otry, he  was  not  so  very  far  from  the  truth  after  all ;  but 
it  shocks  one's  cosmopolitan  soul  to  have  to  subscribe  to 
such  tenets.  Not  because  of  what  they  contain,  but  be- 
cause of  the  uncatholicity  of  the  formula — a  very  stocks, 
indeed,  for  the  confinement  of  one's  belief. 

"What  does  it  matter  ...  to  him  .  .  .  whether  he 
makes  you  food  for  people's  tongues  ?  All  he  cares  about 
is  his  own  pleasure  and  gratification.  The  attentions  .  .  . 
of  such  a  man  .  .  .  are  an  insult  in  themselves.  He  will 
know  you  down  here,  for  his  own  purposes  .  .  .  will 


THE  POST-GIRL  257 

flatter  you  .  .  .  will  walk  with  you ;  but  would  he  know 
you  in  the  towns  ?  Would  he  walk  with  you  .  .  .  before 
his  fine  friends  ?  No,  he  would  not.  He  is  treating  you 
as  though  you  were  a  rose  by  the  roadside,  to  be  plucked 
and  cast  away  the  moment  he  is  tired  of  you.  Your 
friends  are  not  his  friends.  You  ought  to  see  it  ... 
and  know  it.  You  have  no  right  to  be  associating  your- 
self ...  with  a  man  whose  acquaintance  ...  is  so  am- 
biguous. Does  it  matter  to  him  that  you  are  seen  with  him 
.  .  .  along  the  Shippus  lane  by  night?  Does  he  care 
whether  you  are  the  talk  of  every  corner  and  gateway? 
Does  he  ask  for  you  honorably  ...  as  I  do,  and  seek  to 
guard  your  reputation  by  every  means  in  his  power  ?  No, 
no.  When  your  name  has  become  a  byword  he  will  go 
back  to  his  fine  ladies  and  forget  all  about  you." 

"It  is  not  true.  You  are  wrong,"  Pam  struck  in  tear- 
fully, catching  at  the  breast  furthest  away  from  him  and 
pressing  under  it  with  her  rounded  hand  as  though  to  hold 
up  her  weak  and  trembling  body,  ".  .  .  wickedly  wrong. 
You  have  no  right  to  say  those  things  .  .  .  and  I  have  no 
right  to  listen  to  you.  You  think  .  .  .  because  .  .  .  be- 
cause you  saw  us  at  Hesketh's  corner,  and  we  were  to- 
gether. .  .  .  But  you  are  mistaken.  He  met  me  ...  as 
I  was  going  to  Mr.  Smethurst's,  quite  by  accident,  and 
went  with  me.  And  then  .  .  .  we  had  tea  ...  at 
Shippus  together,  and  music,  and  stayed  to  watch  the 
moon  .  .  .  and  came  back.  It  was  every  bit  my  fault. 
He  does  n't  know  anything  about  Shippus  lane  .  .  .  and 
I  thought  of  it,  but  I  dared  not  tell  him.  How  could  I? 
He  has  been  kinder  to  me  than  anybody  else  in  the  world 
—except  Father  Mostyn.  He  is  a  gentleman,  and  I  know 
it  as  well  as  you  .  .  .  and  so  does  he.  Is  a  gentleman 

17 


258  THE  POST-GIRL 

wicked  because  he  's  a  gentleman?  All  the  things 
he  has  done  for  me  ...  he  has  done  without  ever 
taking  advantage  of  his  kindness  by  a  single  word. 
Other  men  have  done  things  for  me  .  .  .  and  asked 
me  to  love  them  or  marry  them  at  once.  He  has 
never  played  with  my  heart  as  you  say,  or  tried  to 
make  love  ...  or  make  me  unhappy.  He  is  too  proud 
to  do  such  things.  You  are  wrong  .  .  .  wickedly  wrong. 
Because  .  .  .  you  love  me  .  .  .  you  think  everybody 
loves  me.  He  likes  me  ...  but  he  does  n't  love  me.  I 
wish  he  did.  Oh,  I  wish  he  did!  But  I  'm  not  good 
enough  for  him  .  .  .  and  I  know  it.  There  has  never 
been  any  question  of  his  loving  me.  He  is  engaged  to 
marry  somebody  else  .  .  .  and  he  may  leave  Ullbrig  any 
day.  When  he  told  me  he  was  going  ...  I  was  so  un- 
happy that  I  began  to  cry.  I  could  n't  help  it.  I  did  n't 
think  he  would  notice  .  .  .  but  he  did  .  .  .  and  tried  to 
comfort  me.  And  then  .  .  .  then  .  .  .  you  were  there 
and  saw.  And  I  love  him,"  she  said,  almost  fiercely — 
certainly  fiercely  for  Pam— "I  love  him.  I  love  him,  and 
I  tell  you.  Because  he  has  been  kind,  and  taught  me 
things,  and  played  to  me.  I  love  him  in  the  same  way  I 
love  Father  Mostyn.  What  if  he  would  n't  walk  with  me 
before  his  friends?  He  has  walked  with  me  so  kindly 
here  .  .  .  and  made  life  so  happy  for  me  .  .  .  that  it 
will  be  like  death  without  him.  Oh,  I  wish  I  were  dead 
now !  I  wish  I  were  dead  now  that  he  's  going!" 

And  turning  aside  by  Lambton's  gate,  close  on  Hes- 
keth's  corner,  she  laid  her  two  arms  upon  the  top  rail, 
and  lowering  her  forehead,  poured  forth  her  wet  sorrow 
into  the  loose  folds  of  her  handkerchief,  with  her  back 
upon  the  man.  He  stood,  mortified  and  helpless,  while 


THE  POST-GIRL  259 

the  girl's  figure  shook  in  the  silent  agony  of  wringing 
forth  her  tears.  Even  from  her  grief  he  was  shut  out. 
He  could  not  touch  her,  could  not  solace  her,  could  not 
draw  near  upon  her.  He  was  but  a  beggar,  permitted  by 
her  bounty  to  sit  at  the  gate  of  her  heart;  a  wretched, 
love-stricken  leper,  whose  confessions  of  homage  were  as 
unpleasant  to  her  as  the  sight  of  raw  wounds.  And  now 
she  had  turned  the  tables  upon  his  whining  reproaches. 
It  was  he  that  stood  guilty,  not  the  girl — and  yet  his 
guilt  was  mingled  with  an  exultant  sense  of  triumph  too, 
at  the  news  she  had  told  him.  The  Spawer  was  going; 
this  evil  weaver  of  charms  was  under  order  of  departure. 
Till  then  he  would  hold  his  tongue ;  bear  with  the  surging 
of  his  love.  When  once  this  stumbling-block  on  the  path- 
way to  the  girl's  heart  was  removed  he  could  renew  his 
approaches — fill  the  void,  even,  that  this  stranger  should 
leave  in  it. 

"I  was  actuated  .  .  .  only  by  desire  for  your  happi- 
ness," he  told  Pam,  after  he  had  suffered  her  to  weep 
awhile  without  interruption.  "What  I  have  said  to  you," 
he  tugged  at  his  collar,  "has  been  said  .  .  .  through  love 
and  for  love." 

The  girl  raised  her  head,  wiped  her  eyes  with  the  damp 
ball  of  her  handkerchief,  and  put  it  away  into  her  pocket. 

"Let  us  go  back,"  she  said.  And  not  another  word 
passed  between  them  that  night. 

"  'Ave  ye  brought  'er  back  wi'  ye  ?"  Emma  Morland 
called,  coming  to  the  passage  end  by  the  big  clock,  to  in- 
quire of  the  schoolmaster  when  they  entered  by  the  front 
door,  and  catching  sight  of  Pam :  "Goodness,  lass,  where 
'ave  ye  been  to  all  this  time  ?  We  was  beginnin'  to  think 
ye  mud  'a  gotten  lost." 


2<3o  THE  POST- GIRL 

"I  went  to  take  Mr.  Smethurst  ...  his  wine,"  Pani 
said. 

The  schoolmaster  passed  through  into  the  little  kitchen. 

"Ay,  bud  ah  s'd  think  'e  '11  'a  drunken  it  all  by  this 
time,"  Emma  exclaimed,  with  not  unkindly  sarcasm.  She 
had  a  reputation,  even  well  deserved,  in  the  district  of  a 
tart  tongue  when  occasion  called  for  it — which  it  fre- 
quently did— but  to  Pam  her  asperity  was  something  in 
the  nature  of  a  loving  shield.  She  could  say  the  hardest 
and  flintiest  utterances  to  Pam,  and  yet  convey  the  sense 
of  kindness  through  them.  Her  hand,  indeed,  was  bony, 
but  its  grasp  was  tender.  "An'  'ow  did  ye  find  t'  old  gen- 
tleman ?  No  better,  ah  s'd  think." 

"No." 

"Nay,  'e  '11  niwer  be  no  better  i'  this  wuld,  ah  doot 
They  gied  ye  yer  tea,  it  seems." 

"No-o." 

"What!    En'tye'adit,  then?" 

"Yes,  thank  you,  Emma." 

"Where?" 

"I  had  it  at  Shippus." 

"At  Shippus.  Well,  ah  niwer !    Did  ye  gan  by  yersen  ?" 

"I  met  Mr.  Wynne." 

"An'  'as  'e  been  wi'  ye  all  time?" 

"Yes." 

"  'Ave  ye  onnly  just  come  back?" 

"...  A  little  while  ago." 

Miss   Morland's  opinion  was  expressed  by  a  pause. 

"Come  in  an'  get  yer  supper.    It  's  all  sett'n  ready." 

"I  don't  want  any  supper  .  .  .  thank  you,  Emma." 

"Not  want  yer  supper?    What  's  amiss  wi'  ye?" 

"Nothing.    At  least  ...  I  have  a  headache." 


THE  POST-GIRL  261 

"Ye  'ad  n't  a  headache  when  ye  started." 

"It  's  the  heat.  It  was  very  hot  in  the  sun.  Where  's 
uncle?" 

'T  t'  parlor." 

"And  aunt?" 

"Ay." 

"Say  good-night  to  them  both  for  me  .  .  .  will  you, 
Emma?" 

"What  .  .  .  are  ye  away  to  bed?" 

"I  think  ...  I  shall  be  better  there." 

"That  's  soon  done  wi'  ye,  onnyways." 

Emma  came  closer  and  took  a  keen  glance  into  the 
girl's  eyes. 

"Ye  look  to  me  as  though  ye  'd  been  cryin',"  she  said. 
"'Aveye?" 

Pam  pretended  not  to  hear  the  question.  Moreover, 
she  was  quite  prepared  to  cry  again  at  the  slightest  oppor- 
tunity. Emma  took  her  by  the  arm. 

"You  're  all  of  a  shake,"  she  said,  and  held  the  girl 
under  scrutiny.  "Pam  lass,"  she  said,  and  dropped  her 
voice  to  a  terrible  whisper;  "there  's  nowt  .  .  .  nowt 
wrong  wi'  ye  ?  Ye  've  not  been  gettin'  into  trouble  ?" 

"Emma !" 

Pam  shook  herself  free  of  scrutiny  with  a  burning  face 
of  repudiation. 

"Thank  goodness!"  Emma  said  devoutly.  "Bud  it 
can  'appen  soon  enough  to  onny  on  ye."  Emma  testified 
freely  at  all  times  to  the  frailty  of  her  sex,  from  which 
weakness,  however,  she  dissociated  herself,  as  a  woman 
possessed  of  the  superior  lamp  of  wisdom  and  common- 
sense  kept  always  burning.  And  indeed,  it  shone  so  con- 
spicuously in  her  window  that  any  bridegroom  of  bur- 


262  THE  POST-GIRL 

glarious  intentions  would  have  been  singularly  intrepid 
not  to  have  been  scared  away  by  such  a  plain  indication 
of  this  virgin's  alertness.  "Onnyway,"  Miss  Morland  de- 
cided, "...  seummut  's  come  tiv  ye  beside  a  'eadache. 
'As  'e  been  sayin'  owt  tiv  ye  ?" 

"Who?" 

"Either  on  'em." 

"How  can  you,  Emma!  .  .  ." 

"'Ave  they?" 

"No.  .  .  ." 

"Ay  .  .  .  bud  ah  'm  none  so  sure." 

"Good-night,  Emma." 

"Good-night,  lass." 

But  before  the  others  in  the  parlor  Emma  spoke  with 
happy  unconcern: 

"Come  yer  -ways  an'  let  's  'ave  supper,"  she  said,  with 
her  head  through  the  door.  "Pam  weean't  be  wi'  us; 
she  's  ganned  to  bed.  Ah  telt  'er  she  'd  better.  Lass  's 
gotten  a  'eadache,  plain  to  see,  wi'  trampin'  about  i'  sun 
this  afternoon— lookin'  after  other  folks'  comfort.  Ah 
div  n't  want  'er  settin'  to,  to  side  things  away  when  we  'ro 
done.  She  would,  for  sure,  if  she  set  up.  Ah  'd  to  say 
good-night  to  ye  both  for  'er,  she  telt  me." 

And  that  same  evening,  during  a  moment  of  the  school- 
master's absence,  the  shoemaker  delivered  himself  of  a 
strange  remark  to  his  wife  and  daughter.  He  was  strug- 
gling with  the  big  black  Book  at  the  time. 

"  'Ave  ye  noticed  .  .  ."  he  inquired,  in  a  .confidential 
undertone,  and  gazing  at  Emma  and  his  wife  over  the 
thick  silver  rims  of  his  spectacles,  "onnything  about  our 
Pam,  latelins?" 

Emma  Morland  looked  up  sharply. 


THE  POST-GIRL  263 

"What  sewd  there  be  to  notice?"  she  asked,  as  though 
the  idea  were  charged  with  the  sublimated  essence  of  the 
ridiculous. 

"Div  ye  think  .  .  .  there  's  owt  betwixt  'er  an'  .  .  ." 
he  jerked  his  thumb  in  the  supposed  direction  of  the  ab- 
sent one,  "t'  schoolmester  ?" 

"Div  ah  think  stuff  and  nonsense!"  Emma  Morland 
said. 

"Ay,  bud  ah  'm  tellin'  ye,"  the  postmaster  insisted. 
"Noo,  mark  mah  wods.  Ah  've  watched  'em  a  goodish 
bit  o'  late,  an'  ah  've  seed  a  little  o'  seummut  when  they 
did  n't  think  there  was  onnybody  to  see  owt." 

"What  'ave  ye  seed  wi'  ye,  then?"  Miss  Morland  in- 
quired sceptically,  but  with  a  sharp  eye. 

"This  much,"  the  postmaster  told  her.  "Ah  've  seed 
'em  talkin'  together  a  dozen  times  when  they  did  n't  use 
to  talk  one.  Ah  've  knowed  time  when  they  'd  set  i'  a 
room  while  clock  ticked  round  almost,  an'  them  nivver 
say  a  wod — or  they  'd  gan  their  ways  oot  after  a  while, 
mebbe.  Watch  an'  see  if  they  '11  set  i'  a  room  aif  a  min- 
ute noo  wi'oot  speakin'  ?  Ay,  an'  ah  've  seed  'im  kickin' 
'is  'eels  about  passage  end  for  'er,  when  'e  did  n't  think  ah 
knowed  owt  about  'im,  an'  she  's  come  down  tiv  'im  i' 
end.  Ay,  an'  ah  've  tekt  notice  on  'im  when  she  's  ganned 
out  o'  room.  'E  's  all  of  a  fidget  to  be  up  an'  after  'er, 
an'  get  a  wod  wi'  'er  on  'er  way  back.  Ay,  an'  'e  sets  up 
for  'er  when  she  comes  back  fro'  Vicarage.  It  '11  be  a 
rum  'un  if  'e  wants  'er — an'  ah  'm  ready  to  lay  'e  diz, 
onny  time.  Ah  div  n't  know  as  ah  could  wish  better  for 
'er,  so  far  as  my  own  inclination  gans.  'E  'd  mek  'er  a 
good  'usband,  an'  'ave  a  good  roof  to  gie  'er,  bud  ah  'm 
jealous  t'  General  'ud  'ave  to  be  considered.  An'  ah  Ve 


264  THE  POST-GIRL 

my  doots  whether  'e  's  man  to  think  ower  much  about 
syke  [such]  as  schoolmesters." 

"T*  old  'umbug,"  Miss  Morland  ejaculated — though 
whether  in  reference  to  the  schoolmaster  or  the  General 
or  his  Reverence  the  Vicar,  would  be  a  difficult  point  to 
decide. 

But  the  subject,  temporarily  suspended  by  the  entrance 
of  the  schoolmaster  himself,  took  deep  root  in  the  family 
imagination — deeper  root,  still,  indeed,  in  the  well-nour- 
ished soil  of  Miss  Morland's  common-sense,  and  testing 
the  hypothesis  by  what  she  had  seen  of  Pam's  conduct  to- 
night, and  finding  it  in  accord,  she  prepared  herself  to 
wait  and  watch  events  with  an  eye  as  keen  as  that  of  one 
of  her  own  needles. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

UP  rose  the  sun  in  the  morning  as  though  nothing  had 
happened,  and  spinning  over  the  red  and  thatched 
roofs  of  Ullbrig,  took  stock  of  the  harvest  fields,  the 
wheat  in  sheaf  and  stook,  the  oats  outstanding;  measured 
the  work  to  be  done  with  a  jocose  eye  as  though  he  had 
said  "Aha!"  and  rubbed  his  hands  in  anticipation  of  a 
glad  time. 

Into  Pam's  bedroom  he  peeped— prudently,  through  a 
corner  of  the  white  blind — and  founxi  the  girl  open-eyed 
upon  her  bed ;  thrown  across  it  transversely  in  abandon- 
ment of  disorder,  with  her  moistened  handkerchief  clasped 
like  a  snow-ball  in  one  hand.  It  had  been  a  night  of  anguish 
and  unutterable  torture.  She  had  wept,  she  had  prayed, 
she  had  resolved,  she  had  renounced,  she  had  slept — at 
once  the  mere  fact  of  sleeping  had  awakened  her — she 
had  tossed  from  pillow  to  pillow,  turned  them  incessantly 
to  find  some  coolness  for  her  fevered  cheek;  she  had 
risen,  and  watched  from  her  window  the  slow  arrival  of 
day;  had  seen  the  firmament  of  stars  sliding  away  in  the 
west,  like  the  giant  glass  of  a  cucumber  frame.  The  do- 
ings of  the  day  before  were  a  delirium.  In  her  dreams 
the  schoolmaster,  the  dying  man,  the  Spawer,  Emma 
Morland,  the  tea-room  at  Shippus,  the  donkeys,  the  moon 
— were  all  mixed  up  in  a  horrid  patchwork  mantle  of  re- 
membrance. The  Spawer  was  going.  There  would  be 
no  more  music;  no  more  French;  no  more  walks  and 
talks  in  the  morning ;  no  more  evenings  at  the  Vicarage ; 


266  THE  POST-GIRL 

no  more  evenings  at  Cliff  Wrangham.  In  the  days  when 
they  had  touched  upon  this  final  parting  with  the  light 
inconsequence  for  a  thing  far  distant — as  people  speak 
of  death — she  had  entered  into  schemes  for  the  continu- 
ance of  all  the  studies  that  he  had  inaugurated.  She 
should  go  to  Hunmouth  for  piano  lessons.  She  should 
have  conversational  French  lessons  ches  M.  Perron, 
whose  brass  plate  and  dirty  windows  she  had  seen  often 
on  her  visit  to  Hunmouth.  Ah,  but  that  was  when  the 
Spawer  had  been  with  her.  It  had  been  bitter-sweet  at 
times  to  dwell  on  future  sadness,  with  the  warm  hand  of 
present  happiness  to  take  hold  of,  as  a  little  child  likes  to 
peer  round  the  bogey-man's  corner,  holding  tight  to  its 
mother's  fingers. 

Now! 

Ah,  now !  All  was  different.  She  wanted  to  die.  Life 
was  n't  worth  living  any  longer.  Now  she  knew  for  her- 
self the  feeling  that  the  schoolmaster  had  suffered  and 
told  her  of :  the  dull  undesire  to  live,  the  carelessness  of 
existence,  the  agonies  of  hopeless  despair.  She  knew  it, 
but  it  made  her  pity  him  no  more.  The  thought  of  him, 
sleeping  within  a  mere  yard  or  two  of  her,  through  a 
couple  of  frail  thicknesses  of  bricks  and  mortar,  filled  her 
with  horror  and  repugnance.  All  the  night  through  his 
cough  had  come  to  her  at  intervals,  telling  of  that  one 
undesirable  companion  of  her  sleeplessness.  She  was 
being  left  to  him.  Like  a  shadow  now  he  would  dog  her 
steps.  And  with  the  instinctive  fear  that  he  would  finally 
overcome  her,  in  spite  of  all,  that  she  would  drift  power- 
lessly  to  him,  for  lack  of  anchor  to  hold  her  firm,  or  im- 
pulse to  move,  she  shuddered  tears  into  her  pillow,  and 
clenched  the  coverlet  with  tightened  fingers. 


THE  POST-GIRL  267 

For  there  was  only  one  man  in  the  world  for  her,  and 
he  was  going.  She  loved  him ;  she  loved  him ;  she  loved 
him.  She  knew  that  she  was  not  for  him  or  he  for  her ; 
that  he  was  above  her  on  the  ladder  of  life,  treading 
cruelly  upon  her  fingers,  as  it  were,  without  knowing  it, 
and  she  too  proud  to  cry  out ;  that  this  love  of  hers  could 
never  be  consummated.  But  she  loved  him  for  all  that; 
drove  the  sharp  knowledge  of  it  into  her  shrinking  soul 
with  the  vindictive  pleasure  of  a  spur. 

She  knew  now,  now  that  he  was  going  and  it  was 
ended,  that  she  loved  him  with  all  the  love  of  which  her 
soul  was  capable.  Would  he  have  had  to  plead  at  her 
skirts  ...  as  the  schoolmaster  had  pleaded?  No,  no, 
no !  She  knew  it.  She  would  have  kept  him  waiting  no 
longer  at  the  door  of  her  heart  than  at  the  door  of  the 
Post  Office  itself.  Had  he  just  come  to  her  and  looked  at 
her,  and  said  "Pam"  .  .  .  oh,  she  would  have  known. 
She  would  have  known  and  gone  into  his  open  arms  with- 
out shame,  like  a  bird  to  the  nest.  But  she  was  not  for 
him ;  never  had  been ;  never  would  be.  She  had  no  anger 
against  him  because  she  was  smitten.  He  was  above  all 
anger.  She  had  no  silly  impulses  of  passion  to  declare 
herself  deceived ;  no  reproaches  because  he  had  never  be- 
fore pronounced  himself  a  man  pledged.  Her  own  heart 
had  been  so  pure  that  it  saw  no  impurity  in  his.  Even 
when  he  had  put  his  arm  about  her  and  drawn  her  to  him, 
and  uttered  her  name  and  looked  at  her  .  .  .  there  was 
nothing  in  that  to  cast  dishonor  upon  the  other  girl.  It 
was  only  that  he  had  detected  her  suffering,  had  under- 
stood that  she  was  weeping  and  unhappy  at  his  de- 
parture .  .  .  had  put  his  arm.  about  her  to  give  her 
comfort,  as  though  she  'd  been  a  little  child.  It  was  a 


268  THE  POST-GIRL 

beautiful  act  of  tenderness  and  compassion  .  .  .  nothing 
more.  Poor  girl!  poor  girl!  She  was  sick  with  the 
misery  of  love,  that,  not  knowing  whence  came  this  sud- 
den sorrow,  multiplied  causes  without  end ;  shames,  igno- 
minies, degradations.  Even  the  scene  with  Emma  Mor- 
land,  that  would  have  slipped  away  from  her  like  water 
off  the  breast-feathers  of  a  swan,  had  her  heart  been 
sound,  was  branded  now  into  her  remembrance  with  the 
sear  of  red-hot  iron.  Emma's  look;  her  inquiries;  the 
grasp  of  her  hand;  the  drop  of  her  voice;  her  anxious 
whisper— somehow,  wretched  girl  that  she  was,  she 
seemed  in  some  fashion  to  have  deserved  them;  to  be 
guilty  of  some  great  unknown  shame ;  to  be  a  lost  sister, 
sinking  like  sediment  through  the  clear  waters  of  life  .to 
its  dregs,  touching  here  and  there  as  she  descended.  The 
day  was  full  of  terrors  for  her;  the  morning  meeting 
with  Emma  and  with  the  schoolmaster ;  the  facing  of  her 
uncle  and  her  aunt ;  their  solicitude  about  a  headache  that 
had  never  been.  More  Ullbrig  hypocrisy  to  wade 
through ;  more  shame  of  lying  and  untruth. 

From  her  bed  she  rose  at  length,  a  soulful  picture  of 
trouble ;  replaced  the  fallen  pillow  and  drew  up  the  blind. 
An  echo  of  its  sound  of  cord  and  creaking  roller  reached 
her  faintly  from  elsewhere,  with  a  muffled  cough,  and 
telling  her  that  her  own  activity  was  being  duplicated  by 
the  ever-vigilant  shadow,  struck  pain  across  her  mouth. 
The  slide  window  was  already  part  open,  but  she  flung 
it  to  its  extreme  width,  and  resting  her  hands  upon  the 
white-painted  sill,  put  out  her  head  with  red  lips  parted, 
and  tried  to  air  her  bosom  of  its  close,  suffocating  atmo- 
sphere of  trouble  that  she  had  been  breathing  and  re- 
breathing  all  through  the  hours  of  this  night.  Down  be- 


THE  POST- GIRL  269 

low,  under  a  thin  attenuated  mist,  lay  the  little  patch- 
work kitchen  garden  of  potatoes  and  onions  and  peas  and 
kidney  beans,  and  the  dingy  vegetable-narrow  frame, 
like  a  crazy  quilt.  And  beyond  that,  away  to  her  left, 
rolled  out  the  fields  in  the  face  of  the  sun  to  Cliff  Wrang- 
ham  .  .  .  where  he  was.  From  her  place  she  could  dis- 
tinguish the  misty  shadow,  like  a  frost  picture  on  a  pane, 
that  proclaimed  Dixon's.  How  often,  in  the  days  that 
were  gone,  had  she  opened  this  casement  and  looked  just 
so  across  the  fields,  and  said  to  herself  :"Will  there  be  any 
letters  for  him  this  morning  ?  .  .  .  and  shall  I  see  him  ?" 
But  now  she  looked  across  and  said :  "I  dare  not  see  him. 
God  send  there  may  be  no  letter  this  morning."  All  the 
world  looked  strange  to  her.  It  seemed  that  her  eyes,  like 
the  eyes  of  an  infant,  were  not  yet  trained  to  correct  the 
images  formed  upon  her  retina. 

Poor  girl !  poor  girl !  She  had  been  so  happy  once. 
So  very  happy  with  her  six  shillings  a  week,  and  no  de- 
sires beyond  the  desire  to  be  at  peace  with  her  neighbors 
and  return  good  for  evil. 

At  last  she  lighted  her  little  oil  stove,  that  had  once 
been  the  supreme  of  her  ambition  throughout  a  month's 
saving,  and  set  her  can  of  bath-water  to  boil.  Every 
morning  she  made  the  complete  ablution  of  her  body  .  .  . 
and  in  summer  sometimes  twice.  In  this  respect,  at  least, 
there  was  nothing  of  the  Ullbrig  hypocrite  about  her.  As 
Father  Mostyn  told  the  Spawer,  and  more  than  once,  for 
Pam  was  a  subject  to  his  liking : 

"Ha!  different  class;  different  class  altogether.  No 
mistaking  it.  You  can  trust  her  inside  and  out.  Does  n't 
dress  herself  first  and  then  put  a  polish  on  her  face  with 
a  piece  of  soapy  flannel,  taking  care  to  rub  the  lather  well 


2;o  THE  POST-GIRL 

in.  Ha!  that  's  our  Ullbrig  way.  Leave  the  neck  for 
Sunday,  and  rub  the  soap  well  in. 

"But,  thank  heaven,  that  's  not  Pam's  way.  Can't  mis- 
take it.  Has  the  instincts  .of  the  bath.  Tubs  herself  like 
an  officer  of  dragoons.  No  mistaking  the  derivation  of 
that.  It  does  n't  come  from  the  people ;  it  's  a  pure  blood 
inheritance;  a  military  strain.  She  keeps  her  body  as 
clean  as  her  mind.  You  could  put  her  in  a  duchess's 
bed,  and  her  grace  need  n't  be  frightened  of  going  in 
alongside  of  her.  Ha!  beautiful,  beautiful!  the  grace  of 
cleanliness  that  is  next  to  godliness.  Her  body  would  al- 
most get  her  into  heaven." 

And  indeed,  St.  Peter  is  scarcely  the  man  I  take  him 
for  if  he  would  n't. 

Leighton's  Psyche  unwound  herself  from  long  veils  of 
diaphanous  drapery  on  the  brink  of  a  marble  bath,  and 
immersed  herself  in  azure  water  without  soap — so  far  as 
the  artist  indicates  in  the  picture.  Pam's  setting  was  a 
big,  round,  sponge  bath,  scrupulously  enamelled  white  by 
her  own  hand;  she  did  not  stand  pensive  by  its  side,  as 
though  wondering  whether  to-morrow  or  the  day  after 
would  do  as  well ;  she  unwound  herself  from  no  sensuous 
mists  of  lawn;  she  held  an  active-service  towel  in  her 
hand,  rough  like  a  tiger's  tongue,  and  in  place  of  the 
diaphanous  draperies  the  steam  from  the  hot  water  rolled 
and  curled  and  licked  about  her  lovingly  as  she  poured  it 
into  the  bath,  and  tried  it  with  fingertips  of  no  indecision 
—but  she  was  Psyche  for  all  that.  Her  body  was  as 
sleek  and  supple  as  the  picture  Psyche;  her  flesh,  where 
the  sun  had  not  browned,  was  as  white  as  alabaster  and 
as  sound  as  a  young  apple ;  her  limbs  as  shapely  as  any 
that  Leighton's  brush  could  have  given  her.  When  she 


THE  POST-GIRL  271 

stood  up,  with  her  firm,  round  bosom  thrown  out,  and 
dipping  the  big  Turkey  sponge  into  the  wash-basin  of 
cold  water,  pressed  it  to  her  with  both  hands  as  though 
she  were  hugging  the  desire  of  her  heart,  while  the  water 
slid  down  her  snowy  torso,  tinged  with  warm  glow  of 
pink  now,  like  marble,  and  ran,  still  clinging  about  her 
limbs  and  body,  to  her  feet;  and  dipped  again,  and 
again  pressed,  and  again  and  still  again,  till  the  water  at 
her  service  was  exhausted,  she  was  the  best,  most  beauti- 
ful type  of  English  girl;  unforced  in  growth,  but  devel- 
oped gradually  in  pure  air  and  pure  thought;  not  one 
member  of  her  corporeal  republic  in  advance  of  the  other, 
or  of  herself;  all  of  them,  indeed,  reserved  in'their  devel- 
opment rather  than  in  advance  of  it,  but  awaiting  only 
the  ripening.  The  beautiful  picture  of  a  girl  on  the 
threshold  of  womanhood,  and  waiting  in  all  chastity  to 
be  called,  without  any  indecorous  rush  to  be  in  advance 
of  the  summons.  Ah,  girls,  girls,  girls !  Always  anxious 
to  be  women.  Do  not  struggle  so  inordinately  to  be  ripe 
for  the  market.  Do  you  think  man  is  such  a  poor  judge 
that  he  does  not  know  the  merits  of  green  fruit,  or  so 
witless  that  he  does  not  know  the  dangers  of  the  ripe? 
Keep  your  thoughts  and  bodies  green,  like  oranges  for 
shipment,  for  indeed  you  are  perishable  fruit. 

The  stimulus  of  the  bath  restored  to  some  extent  the 
freshness  of  the  girl's  mind,  and  gave  to  her  sorrow  a 
cleanly,  less  bedraggled  emotion.  From  her  eyes  she 
swilled  away  all  traces  of  the  night's  tears.  Thank 
Heaven,  she  renovated  very  easily ;  a  porcelain  girl  could 
not  have  ceded  the  dust  of  trouble  more  completely.  She 
showed  no  redness  about  the  lashes ;  no  swelling  of  the 
fids;  no  dark  hollows  above  the  cheek-bone.  Her  flesh 


272  THE  POST-GIRL 

had  not  sickened  in  the  least.  A  little  press  of  the  finger- 
tip on  its  plumpness,  and  lo !  it  sprang  back  alive  and 
responsive,  like  a  cushion,  with  a  little  pink  blush  at  the 
salutation ;  it  did  not  respond  with  doughy  sluggishness. 
Her  lips  had  lost  none  of  their  fire  of  ruby ;  they  had  not 
consumed  at  all  to  grey  ash ;  there  was  no  dryness  to 
show  how  great  the  flame  had  been,  no  withering  like  the 
dried  leaf  of  a  rose.  Moist  and  elastic  they  looked  as 
ever;  the  beautiful  downward  pull  about  their  corners — 
as  though  an  invisible  Cupid  were  trying  hard  to  bend 
this  bow  of  his— might  be  more  divinely  accentuated,  but 
that  would  only  be  to  an  acute  observer  who,  holding  the 
secret  of  the  girl's  sorrow  as  we  do,  searched  keenly  upon 
her  face  for  the  outward  signs  of  it.  Her  cheeks  were 
still  as  smooth  and  creaseless  as  ivory ;  her  brow  like  a 
tablet  on  which  nothing  evil  could  ever  be  written.  The 
same  old  Pam  she  looked  and  seemed  to  everybody  but 
herself.  Ah,  if  only  one's  mind  would  wash  like  one's 
body — what  blissful  sinners  we  could  be. 

And  with  the  strangely  awakened  desire  for  cleanliness, 
the  feverish  thirst  of  a  mind  to  counteract  by  outward 
purity  its  inward  contamination,  the  desire  even  to  change 
all  the  old  garments  of  yesterday's  turpitude,  to  invest 
herself  in  a  new  atmosphere,  to  give  herself  a  new  mind 
and  a  new  body  and  a  new  environment,  if  she  might, 
she  drew  on  her  legs  black  cotton-silk  stockings  of  the 
sort  she  wore  on  Sundays ;  buckled  them  with  the  best 
pretty  blue  silk  garters  of  her  own  making  (Emma  had 
a  pair  like  these  too),  clad  herself  in  linen  of  snowy 
white,  unfolded  from  her  neat  store  in  drawer  and  cup- 
board ;  and  hid  all  this  dazzling  envelopment  under  a 
pretty  pale  print  frock  that  could  have  stood  up  of  ifs 


THE  POST-GIRL  273 

own  cleanliness — cool  and  fresh  and  rigid  as  an  iceberg. 
And  round  her  throat  she  clipped  a  snowy  collar,  and 
tied  it  with  a  crimson  bow  of  silk.  To  be  cool  and  clean, 
and  be  conscious  of  it.  Let  the  mind  burn,  if  it  will,  so 
long  as  the  body  does  not  reproach  us. 

Thus  she  was  clad  at  last,  and  came  forth  to  face  the 
day,  diffusing  little  wafts  of  cool  print  and  white  linen  at 
every  movement  of  her  body ;  little  breaths,  fresh  and  un- 
per fumed,  smelling  of  nothing  but  young  girlhood  and 
cleanliness,  that  the  nostril  curled  gratefully  to  inhale  and 
retain,  as  reviving  to  the  spirit  as  puffs  of  breeze  blown 
into  some  burning  valley  from  snow-clad  mountains. 

Slowly  the  early  hours  of  the  day  wore  on,  and  shaped 
themselves,  outwardly  at  least,  to  the  semblance  of  all 
other  days  that  had  gone  before.  Days  in  Ullbrig  are  as 
alike  as  pennies.  This  might  have  been  yesterday, 
or  a  day  out  of  last  week,  or  a  day  out  of  last  year. 
Only  the  change  in  oneself  and  one's  outlook  told  of  the 
relentless  passage  of  time.  They  sat  at  breakfast  in  the 
second  kitchen,  this  strange  assortment  of  table  com- 
pany. The  girl,  like  a  star  plucked  from  heaven,  cleansed 
with  the  dew,  and  exhaling  the  freshness  of  skies  and 
dawn ;  the  postmaster,  with  his  genial  honest  face  of 
shrewd  stupidity,  brown  as  snuff  and  wrinkled  like 
morocco  leather,  who  cut  bread  with  his  knife  and  thumb 
and  shoved  it  home  with  the  haft,  making  a  pouch  of  one 
cheek  while  he  talked  out  of  a  corner  of  the  other;  who 
stirred  his  cup  with  the  noise  of  a  grindstone,  and  looped 
his  thumb  round  his  spoon  while  he  drank  to  prevent  its 
slipping  down  his  throat.  Mrs.  Morland,  with  her  re- 
laxed face  of  maternal  good-nature,  like  a  well-buttered 
muffin,  who  looked  as  though  she  lacked  the  energy  for 

18 


274  THE  POST-GIRL 

long-sustained  anger,  which,  in  truth,  she  did.  The  vigi- 
lant Emma,  sitting  bolt-upright,  as  a  sort  of  human  cruet, 
vinegary  and  peppery— whose  acidulated  conversation  al- 
most lent  the  zest  of  pickles  to  the  meal.  And  last  of  all 
the  schoolmaster,  peering  ruminatively — not  to  say  fur- 
tively—into his  plate  as  though  it  were  a  book  he  pored 
over.  When  he  masticated  there  were  muscles  that 
worked  in  his  temples  and  imparted  an  air  of  grave, 
cerebral  activity.  His  cough  troubled  him  this  morning, 
and  his  face  bore  the  haggard  evidences  of  sleepless- 
ness. 

No  word  of  allusion  to  last  night's  matter  passed  be- 
tween these  two,  but  the  constrained  silence  of  each 
towards  the  other  was  like  a  finger  laid  inexorably  upon 
this  page  of  their  past.  He  was  present  when  the  post- 
master inquired  of  Pam  about  her  headache,  but  re- 
corded no  expression  of  sympathy.  Perhaps  Pam's  crim- 
son blush  deterred  him ;  but  he  lingered,  brushing  his  hat 
in  the  passage  before  departing  for  school,  and  when 
Pam  happened  to  make  a  journey  into  the  front  parlor 
he  interposed  himself  by  the  door  against  her  return. 
Pam  finding  him  there,  still  brushing  his  hat  as  though 
he  were  an  automatic  hat-brusher,  stopped  in  the  door- 
way coming  out,  and  stood  before  him  without  speaking 
—not  angrily  or  resentfully  or  reproachfully — but  de- 
cidedly with  the  unhappiness  of  awakened  remembrance 
upon  her  downcast  face  and  trembling  lip. 

"I  only  wanted  .  .  ."  he  began,  in  a  low  voice,  almost 
inaudible,  "...  to  tell  you.  Last  night  I— I  said 
things  to  you  .  .  .  that  perhaps  I  ought  n't  to  have  said. 
I  can't  remember  now  exactly  what  I  did  say,  but  I  'm 
.  .  .  I  'm  very  sorry  I  said  anything." 


THE  POST-GIRL  275 

Pam  told  him  it  did  n't  matter  the  least  bit.  He 
was  n't,  please,  to  trouble. 

"I  did  it  for  the  best,"  he  explained,  "...  at  the 
time." 

Pam  said  .  .  .  she  was  sure  he  did.  He  was  n't, 
please,  to  think  about  it.  It  appeared,  however,  the  only 
thing  he  was  capable  of  thinking  about.  He  seemed  to 
have  a  difficulty  in  tearing  himself  away  from  it;  brush- 
ing his  hat  the  while.  It  is  fortunate  school  started  when 
it  did,  or  he  would  have  worn  all  the  remaining  nap  off. 

"Will  you  please  try  .  .  .  and  forget  what  I  said  to 
you  .  .  .  and  forgive  me  ?" 

Pam  said  .  .  .  she  had  forgotten  already.  A  shade 
crossed  over  his  face  to  think  that  she  should  so  soon 
have  forgotten  words  that  had  been  so  vital  to  him  at  the 
time,  but  the  forgiveness  that  accompanied  it  relieved  the 
momentary  disquietude. 

"I  hope  .  .  ."  he  suggested— and  in  the  pauses  he 
brushed  his  hat  fiercely — "  .  .  .  that  it  will  make  .  .  . 
no  difference  to  us.  I  hope  we  shall  be  ...  as  we  ... 
as  we  were  before." 

Pam  hoped  so  too,  an  invalid  hope  that  walked  slowly, 
and  touched  the  walls  of  silence  for  support  as  it  went. 

"Noo,"  said  the  postmaster  triumphantly,  in  the  clean 
little  kitchen,  holding  up  a  hand  to  enjoin  attention,  and 
jerking  his  thumb  violently  in  the  direction  of  the  parlor 
door,  whence  the  brushing  of  the  hat  and  the  low  mur- 
mur of  voices  could  plainly  be  heard.  "What  did  ah  tell 
ye?  There  they  are  agen,  whisperin'  an'  mummelin'. 
As  soon  as  ivver  'e  got  agate  wi'  'is  'at  i'  passage  Pam 
started  to  be  after  'im." 

"Sh !     Be  still  wi'  ye,  then,"  said  Miss  Morland,  going 


276  THE  POST-GIRL 

nearer  to  the  door.    "Div  ye  want  to  mek  'em  think  we  're 
listenin'  tiv  'em  ?" 

But  even  while  she  spoke  the  sound  of  the  hat-brush 
ceased,  and  the  subsequent  shutting  of  the  front  door 
announced  that  the  schoolmaster  had  departed  to  his 
duties— having  told  Pam  that  after  this  morning  these 
duties  would  be  at  an  end  until  harvest  was  over. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

HALF  an  hour  later  the  mail  cart  rattled  up  before 
the  two-fold  Governmental  door  over  the  big  round 
cobbles,  and  the  fiery  figure  of  James  Maskill,  red  and 
shining  like  a  new-boiled  lobster,  fresh  from  his  sun-bath, 
invaded  the  Post  Office,  blowing  the  sweat  off  his  mouth 
on  to  the  floor  in  a  fierce  "Bf-f-f !"  with  a  shake  of  the 
head,  and  slammed  the  letter-bag  on  to  the  counter  in  a 
strenuous  but  not  aggressive  greeting. 

"Noo,"  he  said  to  the  postmaster,  mopping  his  face  at 
him  with  a  red  handkerchief,  and  "Noo,"  again  to  Pam, 
mopping  the  inside  of  his  cap.  "Mah  wod!  Bud  it  's 
gannin'  to  be  warm  to-day,  before  it  's  done." 

"Will  you  have  a  drink,  James  ?"  Pam  asked  him. 

At  the  sight  of  that  ominous  bag,  so  full  of  deadly  in- 
ertness and  possibility,  her  heart  had  thumped  her  like 
a  stone  in  a  box.  .Yes  or  no ;  yes  or  no ;  yes  or  no  ? 

"What  of?"  James  asked  her  straightway. 

"Of  ...  of  ...  what  would  you  like?" 

"Nay  .  .  .  'appen  ah  'm  best  wi'oot,"  James  decided, 
a  great  mantle  of  modesty  falling  over  him  at  this  sug- 
gestion of  choice. 

"Not  if  you  want  one,  you  're  not,"  Pam  said. 

Her  fingers  were  burning,  and  her  heart  was  dreading 
the  opening  of  the  bag.  Was  there?  Was  n't  there? 
Was  there?  Was  n't  there?  She  put  her  hand  to  her 
side  again.  James  only  thought  she  slackened  the  grip 
of  her  belt. 


278  THE  POST-GIRL 

"Ah  could  do  wi'  un,"  he  admitted  reluctantly,  "so  far 
as  that  gans." 

"Milk  .  .  .  would  you  like?"  Pam  suggested. 

"Nay  ...  ah  mun't  mix  'em,"  he  declared  oracularly, 
and  licked  his  parched  lips  with  a  smack  of  apprehension. 

"Mix  what?"  Pam  asked. 

"Ah  Ve  'ad  one  ...  o'  t'  road,"  he  explained.  "Bud 
'appen  yon  barril  's  thruff  by  noo.  She  wor  drawin'  a 
bit  thick  last  time  ye  asked  me." 

"Ye  're  best  wi'oot,  Jaames  Maskill,"  came  the  voice  of 
Emma  Morland,  from  the  interior  of  the  Post  Office, 
"...  this  time  o'  mornin'." 

"Ay,  ah  think  ah  'm,  mebbe,"  said  the  postman,  plung- 
ing hands  into  his  pockets  and  screwing  up  his  mouth  for 
a  broken-hearted  whistle. 

"Gie  'im  a  glass  o'  lemonade,"  said  the  voice  again. 
"  'E  can  'ave  that  an'  welcome." 

"Will  you  have  a  glass  of  lemonade?"  asked  Pam. 

"Ay,  ah  'm  willin',  if  it  suits  ye,"  the  postman  acknow- 
ledged. 

A  hand  appeared  at  the  inner  door  holding  a  lemonade 
bottle  and  a  thick  tumbler  (the  latter  looking  as  though  it 
had  once  held  marmalade  in  Fussitter's  window),  and  a 
second  hand,  when  Pam  had  possessed  herself  of  these, 
held  forth  a  boxwood  lemonade  opener. 

The  postman  drew  forth  the  effervescing  liquid  thirstily 
into  his  profounds,  with  his  red  chin  mounting  up  step 
by  step  as  though  it  were  going  upstairs,  and  a  great 
fizzling  sound  from  within  as  if  he  were  a  red-hot  man, 
and  let  the  glass  rest  on  inverted  end  upon  his  lips  for  a 
space,  to  make  sure  it  had  yielded  its  last  drop,  and  set  it 
down  on  the  counter  with  a  great  breathed  "Ah!"  of 


THE  POST-GIRL  279 

appreciation,  holding  his  mouth  open  while  the  sparkles 
needled  his  inside. 

"Noo  let  's  away,"  he  said,  "...  or  we  s'll  be  'avin' 
old  Tankard  prawtestin'  us  to  Goovinment  agen." 

He  said  this  because  Pam  had  already  opened  the  bag 
and  was  sorting  the  letters  with  quick,  nervous  fingers. 
Those  for  James  Maskill's  district  went  to  the  right  hand 
of  her;  those  for  her  own  to  the  left.  Her  heart  began 
to  beat  furiously.  Now  the  impulse  seized  her  to  spread 
out  all  these  letters  over  the  counter  and  to  furrow  with 
both  hands  among  them  for  the  letter  she  feared  to  find. 
She  knew  by  an  instinct  so  strong  that  she  never  for  a 
moment  questioned  it,  what  characteristics  the  fatal  letter 
would  possess.  In  her  mind's  eye  she  saw,  with  such 
clearness  that  her  actual  eye  could  scarcely  add  aught  to 
the  confirmation,  the  thin  foreign  envelope,  the  green 
stamps,  the  familiar  superscription.  She  went  cold  and 
she  went  hot.  Her  ears  burned,  and  there  were  strange 
noises  opening  inside  them  like  whistles  and  hummings, 
as  though  in  protest  to  the  insupportable  outer  silence, 
the  imperturbable  calm  of  the  Post  Office.  But  the  post- 
man was  watching  her,  and  the  postmaster  from  his  high 
deal  stool.  It  seemed  as  though  they  were  all  three 
silently  concentrated  upon  the  appearance  of  that  fatal 
missive.  Her  emotions  hastened,  delayed,  evaded,  shuf- 
fled, ceased;  but  before  these  two  onlookers  her  fingers 
went  on  regularly  as  clockwork. 

Right,  left.    Right,  right,  right. 

Left,  left. 

Right.  .  .  . 

Left.  .  .  . 

James  Maskill,  watching  her,  thought  she  hesitated 


280  THE  POST-GIRL 

there  for  an  almost  inappreciable  moment,  as  though  she 
had  detected  her  fingers  in  blundering,  and  expected  to 
see  her  transfer  the  letter  from  her  own  pile  to  his.  But 
she  had  not  blundered.  No,  no;  she  had  not  blundered. 
The  distribution  of  the  envelopes  went  on  again  apace, 
as  though  she  were  dealing  hands  from  Fate's  pack. 
Left,  right;  left,  right;  left,  left,  left.  She  allotted  the 
last  letter,  and  pushed  James  Maskill's  budget  towards 
him  across  the  counter  with  a  heroic  smile,  enough  to 
make  his  eyes  water.  It  was  the  smile  such  as  a  dying 
martyr  might  bequeath  to  those  she  loved,  and  by  whom 
she  had  been  loved.  All  was  death  and  the  coldness  of 
it  underneath,  but  at  times  like  these  death,  coming  from 
within,  drives  out  the  soul  from  its  earthly  tenement, 
and  as  it  lingers  on  the  threshold  of  the  flesh  before  de- 
parting, the  flesh  is  glorified.  Many  smiles  had  Pam 
given  the  postman  in  his  time  .  .  .  but  this  one  clung  to 
him— so  far  as  anything  seemed  to  him — that  she  might 
almost  love  him.  That  smile  accompanied  James  Maskill 
throughout  his  morning's  round.  Ullbrig,  looking  be- 
neath its  blinds  and  through  its  muslin  curtains,  and  out 
of  the  cool,  gauze-protected  windows  of  its  dairies  at 
the  toiling  figure  of  the  postman— hot,  perspiring,  and 
dusty— could  have  little  imagined  that  he  was  the  carnal 
receptacle  of  a  smile;  that  he  held  Pam's  last  look  en- 
closed in  his  secretive  body  as  though  it  had  been  the 
precious  pearl  and  he  the  rugged  oyster.  But  so  it  was. 
He  scarcely  noticed  the  shining  of  the  outer  sun,  to  such 
extent  did  the  internal  brightness  light  him. 

And  meanwhile,  while  James  Maskill  fed  his  heart 
upon  that  one  smile  and  thought  what  a  treasury  of  bliss 
it  would  mean  to  possess  the  possessor  of  it,  the  possessor 


THE  POST-GIRL  281 

walked  along,  a  miserable  bankrupt  of  happiness. 
Scarcely  another  smile  remained  to  her.  She  had  given 
him  that  one,  but  it  was  about  her  very  last.  Under  the 
broad  brown  strap  of  her  letter-bag  she  strode,  with  her 
lips  locked  and  her  soul  as  far  away  from  her  eyes  as 
though  the  body  were  a  house  in  the  hands  of  the  bailiffs ; 
the  key  elsewhere ;  the  occupants  dispersed.  For  all  the 
sun  beat  upon  the  red  poppies  in  her  hat  till  the  straw 
cracked  again  and  planted  burning  kisses  on  her  neck, 
she  was  almost  cold,  from  her  feet  in  their  black  cotton- 
silk  stockings  upward.  Once  or  twice  even,  she  could 
have  shivered  for  a  thought.  And  the  burden  of  the  bag ! 
Strange  that  one  letter  should  make  such  a  difference. 

All  about  her  the  harvest  was  in  full  swing ;  the  reapers 
whirling  from  seen  and  unseen  quarters  like  the  chirrup- 
ing of  grasshoppers.  The  morning's  mist  was  quite  ab- 
sorbed ;  the  scene  was  as  clear  and  detailed  as  one  of 
those  colored  Swiss  photographs,  with  a  blue  sky,  show- 
ing perhaps  here  and  there  a  little  buoyant  white  cloud 
floating  cool  and  motionless  in  it,  like  ice  in  wine.  To- 
wards Garthston  way  the  moving  sails  of  the  self-binder 
beat  the  air  above  the  hedges.  Half  a  dozen  fields  dis- 
tant a  pair  of  red  braces,  crossed  over  a  calico  shirt, 
struck  out  clear  and  distinct  as  though  the  whole  formed 
a  banner.  Now  and  again  she  heard  "Helloes,"  and 
looking,  saw  remote  figures  hailing  her  through  their 
trumpeted  hands.  When  she  raised  her  own  hand  in  re- 
sponse they  made  semaphores  with  the  twisted  bands  of 
straw  or  shook  rakes  in  the  blue  air.  It  was  not  many 
harvest  fields  that  would  have  liked  Pam  to  pass  along 
the  road  without  noticing  them.  From  their  side  of  the 
picture  they  saw  the  scarlet  poppies  dancing  lightheart- 


282  THE  POST-GIRL 

edly  on  their  errand,  and  took  the  friendly  uplifting  of 
the  girl's  arm  for  token  of  the  smile  they  never  doubted 
would  be  there.  If  they  could  but  have  seen  the  smile 
of  their  blissful  imagination  at  close  quarters— a  mere 
strained  drawing  back  of  the  lips— as  significant  of  pain 
as  of  pleasure,  it  would  have  furnished  them  with  ample 
material  for  their  harvest-field  converse. 

Ah,  yes.  She  was  very  sick  and  wretched  and  un- 
happy. All  the  natural  spring  was  out  of  her  step.  She 
wanted  to  .walk  flat-footed,  with  both  her  hands  hanging 
and  her  chin  down ;  but  by  sheer  resolve  she  held  her  head 
high,  and  broke  the  dull  concussion  of  her  step  with  that 
lissom  responsiveness  of  toe  which  was  now  the  vanished 
inheritance  of  her  happiness.  She  did  not  want  to  meet 
him  .  .  .  this  morning.  She  did  not  feel  equal  to  it. 
She  prayed,  as  she  walked,  that  she  might  have  this  one 
good  favor  bestowed  upon  her  in  her  trouble:  the 
blessed  privilege  of  avoiding  him.  Without  the  culminat- 
ing straw  to  her  sorrow,  the  letter  in  her  bag,  she  could 
have  met  him  .  .  .  perhaps  .  .  .  with  some  amount  of 
courage  and  confidence.  But  now  ...  to  have  to  be 
the  bearer  of  what  she  bore  .  .  .  and  repeat  all  the  his- 
tory of  her  misery  in  this  summarised  form ;  to  give  him 
the  letter  ...  be  witness  while  he  read  It  even ;  hear  him 
tell  her  definitely  that  he  must  go  ...  that  all  was  over ! 
Oh,  no,  no,  no !  It  was  too  much  for  her  to  sustain.  And 
she  did  n't  want  to  break  down  before  him  again.  She 
did  n't  want  to  degrade  herself  in  his  sight.  It  was  one 
thing  to  shed  tears  at  a  sudden  intelligence  .  .  .  but  it 
was  another  to  be  always  shedding  them.  If  she  showed 
tears  again  ...  he  would  suspect  her.  Had  he  been 
another  girl  she  could  have  wept  her  weep  out  upon  his 


THE  POST-GIRL  283 

shoulder.  That  was  admissible  between  girls.  But  be- 
cause he  was  a  man  .  .  .  she  could  not  weep.  There 
were  no  friendships  possible  between  men  and  women; 
it  was  love  or  nothing.  She  must  just  let  her  heart  break 
— if  only  it  would — in  silence  and  solitude. 

All  in  thinking  upon  her  trouble,  her  step,  accommo- 
dating itself  spontaneously  to  the  mental  retardation  of 
her  progress,  grew  slower  and  slower.  The  nearer  she 
came  to  Cliff  Wrangham,  the  more  time  she  needed  to 
prepare  herself.  If  possible  she  must  try  and  slip  round 
through  the  Dixon's  paddock,  cut  across  the  stackgarth, 
and  leave  the  letter  with  one  of  the  twins — if  only  she 
could  come  upon  them — without  being,  seen.  They  would 
be  sure  to  be  somewhere  about.  Then  she  tested  her 
stratagem  by  all  sorts  of  contingencies.  Suppose  Miss 
Bates  came  upon  her  instead,  and  asked  her  to  wait  .  .  . 
for  any  letters  in  return.  Suppose  ...  he  was  out  in 
the  lane  .  .  .  waiting  anxiously  for  the  very  letter  she 
so  feared  delivering.  She  might  leave  it  at  Stamway's, 
and  ask  Stamway's  If  they  xd  let  Arthur  drop  across  the 
fields  with  it  ...  as  she  was  in  a  hurry  to  get  back. 
And  she  would  give  Arthur  a  penny. 

And  now  her  step  was  slowed  almost  to  a  standstill. 
George  Middleway  even  could  have  run  her  down.  All 
the  activity  was  up  above;  there  was  none  left  for  her 
legs.  Already  she  was  past  the  halfway  house  in  the 
little  elbow  of  road  before  you  get  first  sight  of  Stam- 
way's. It  is  a  part  enclosed ;  except  from  the  immediate 
fields,  which  were  untenanted,  she  could  n't  be  seen  here 
in  the  pursuit  of  wasting  Government  time.  The  next 
turn  would  bring  her  into  sight  again;  she  would  be 
under  the  eyes  of  Stamway's;  Dixon's  would  be  able  to 


284  THE  POST-GIRL 

follow  her  progress  henceforward,  all  but  a  yard  here  or 
a  yard  there,  to  the  paddock  stile.  Before  she  came  into 
public  view  again  .  .  .  she  ought  to  think;  she  ought  to 
make  sure.  And  one  cannot  think,  standing  erect  in  the 
roadway  like  a  scarecrow.  It  looks  suspicious,  even  to 
the  suspicious  eye  of  self— that  at  these  times  suspects 
everything.  Instinctively  she  drew  into  the  shelter  of  a 
hospitable  gateway.  There,  at  least,  she  could  profess 
for  her  own  satisfaction  that  she  had  succumbed  to  the 
midday  lassitude ;  was  listening  to  the  music  of  the  reap- 
ers, with  her  arm  over  the  rail  and  her  foot  on  one  of  the 
lower  bars. 

Was  the  past  a  dream?  ...  or  the  present?  Had  the 
Spawer  ever  been?  ...  or  was  he  ever  going?  Which 
was  easier  to  realise?  The  joyousness  of  then  or  the 
misery  of  now  ?  Should  she  wake  up  to  discover  that  all 
her  unhappiness  was  a  nightmare,  that  there  was  no  ques- 
tion of  the  Spawer's  going,  no  dread  of  a  letter?  She 
dipped  her  hand,  almost  unconsciously,  into  the  bag  to 
see  if,  perchance,  the  whole  affair  was  an  unsubstantial 
fabric  of  fancy. 

Ah,  no !  No  fancy ;  no  fancy.  She  had  not  wakened 
yet.  There  were  the  two  letters  at  the  bottom  of  the  bag ; 
the  one  for  Stamway,  the  other  ...  it  came  out  with  her 
hand.  She  had  not  wilfully  drawn  it,  but  it  seemed  to 
cling  to  her  fingers.  Oh  yes,  how  well  she  knew  its 
motley  of  stamps  and  postmarks ;  how  well  the  super- 
scription in  that  familiar  feminine  hand.  She  held  it 
before  her  eyes,  and  gazed  at  the  writing  as  though  she 
would  have  wrested  the  invisible  scribe  out  of  it ;  called 
up  the  astral  body  of  the  girl  who,  in  these  shapely  lines, 
and  all  innocently  and  unknowingly,  had  dealt  her  happi- 


THE  POST-GIRL  285 

ness  such  an  irreparable  blow.  Who  was  she?  Where 
did  she  live?  When,  where,  and  how  had  he  met  her? 
Did  she  love  music  ?  Had  he  taught  her  ?  Had  he  taught 
her  French?  Was  she  beautiful?  Ah,  she  was  sure  to 
be.  And  a  lady.  That  would  be  a  fashionable  way  of 
affixing  the  stamps.  And  young.  Rich  too,  perhaps. 
She  must  be,  for  poor  people  could  not  afford  to  spend 
long  holidays  in  foreign  places  like  this.  Assuredly  the 
writer  of  these  words  did  not  tramp  the  country  roads 
with  a  bag  over  her  shoulder  for  six  shillings  a  week. 

Something  white  and  moving  grew  into  the  corner  of 
her  unconscious  eye  as  she  gazed  in  absorption  upon  the 
fatal  envelope — a  cow  or  a  horse  or  a  sheep  or  a  cloud, 
over  the  hedge  line. 

But  no ;  it  was  not  a  cow.  It  was  too  erect  for  a  cow ; 
too  tall  for  a  sheep ;  too  progressive  for  a  cloud.  There 
was  a  patch  of  color  about  it  too,  somewhere.  Cows 
did  not  wear  ribbons,  or  sheep  or  clouds. 

It  was  a  figure ;  the  figure  of  a  man ;  a  man  in  white ; 
a  man  in  flannels — the  Spawer. 

All  at  once  her  dormant  consciousness  awoke  with  a 
start  to  his  imminence,  as  though  her  eye  had  been  giving 
no  warning  of  his  approach  all  this  while.  She  turned 
round,  and  a  great  spreading  sickness  of  guilt  took  hold 
of  her.  Her  blood  seemed  rushing  all  ways,  like  an  ant- 
hill in  confusion.  The  hand  with  the  letter  dropped  sud- 
denly, as  though  it  were  a  wounded  wing.  It  was  the 
right  hand  that  held  it  now,  and  the  bag  was  on  her  left 
side.  Had  he  seen  her?  Could  she  pass  it  into  the  bag 
without  notice.  He  was  horribly  near  .  .  .  and  looking 
at  her.  Her  heart  pitched  downward  like  a  foundering 
vessel  into  the  trough  of  her  fear. 


286  THE  POST-GIRL 

Into  the  pocket  at  the  back  of  her  her  guilty  hand 
crept,  trembling  and  craven,  and  lay  there,  in  its  thief's 
refuge,  burning  unbearably  like  the  firebrand  of  her 
infamy. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

/T>HE  hot  sunlight  about  the  Post  Office  was  savory 
J_  with  the  smell  of  Yorkshire  pudding — you  might 
have  almost  imagined  that  it  was  the  house  itself  a-cook- 
ing — when  Pam  returned,  beneath  the  sling  of  the  empty 
letter-bag. 

On  other  mornings  she  would  take  her  way  in  through 
the  two-fold  Governmental  door;  announce  her  arrival 
in  musical  pleasantry  to  the  postmaster  in  his  little  shoe- 
makery ;  hang  up  the  flabby  letter-bag  on  its  peg  behind 
the  counter ;  pop  in  upon  Emma  Morland,  if  she  were  at 
work  in  the  trying-on  room,  to  commend  her  diligence  or 
express  surprise  at  the  amount  of  the  work  achieved,  or 
ask  in  what  way  she  could  be  of  assistance ;  give  a  look 
into  the  little  clean  kitchen  to  feel  the  pulse  of  the  oven, 
and  proffer  herself  for  some  kind  service  to  her  aunt-by- 
courtesy,  as  red  as  boiled  beetroot,  and  fitting  her 
clothes  as  tightly  as  if  she  'd  been  a  bladder  set  before  the 
hot  grate.  But  this  morning  the  girl  made  no  parade  of 
arrival.  She  drew  nearer  to  the  house  by  the  shadow  of 
its  walls,  and  let  herself  meekly  in  through  the  spick-and- 
span  household  door — white  painted,  with  fashionable 
brass  knob  and  knocker — that  gives  entrance  between  the 
twelve-paned  parlor  window  beyond  the  scraper  and  the 
smaller  eight-paned  window  of  Miss  Morland's  trying-on 
room,  whose  austere  starched  curtains  (drawn  in  primly 
at  the  pit  of  the  stomachs  with  pink  sashes  to  reveal  the 


288  THE  POST-GIRL 

polished  oak  cover  of  the  sewing-machine,  and  sundry 
dress  fabrics  in  course  of  construction,  casually  dis- 
played) always  proclaimed  any  particularly  sacred  rite  of 
disrobement  proceeding  within  its  sanctuary  bv  being  dis- 
creetly pinned. 

Whereat,  though  man's  religious  fibres  might  be  stirred 
to  their  utmost,  it  was  useless  his  stopping  to  spell  out  the 
familiar  capitals  of  Emma's  card  with  all  the  earnestness 
of  the  anxious  (and  short-sighted)  inquirer  after  Truth. 

Up  to  her  bedroom  she  stole,  a  soft-toed  figure,  by  the 
best  Sunday  staircase,  with  white  holland  over  the  car- 
pet. If  she  were  dead  they  would  bring  her  down  this 
staircase  in  her  coffin.  She  wished  she  were  dead.  She 
was  dead  in  all  but  the  flesh— and  in  truth  she  looked  but 
the  phantom  of  her  former  self — but  the  ghost  of  the  girl 
that  had  gone  out  this  morning.  All  the  color  was  struck 
out  of  her  blanched  cheeks  as  though  a  hand  had  smitten 
them  white,  and  no  blood  returned  to  reproach  the  blow. 
Her  eyes  were  fixed  in  front  of  her  whichever  way  she 
walked;  it  seemed  something  horrible  had  been  stamped 
upon  them  and  set  over  them  for  seal.  Her  lips  were 
hard  and  rigid;  wax-work  lips,  artificially  colored,  upon 
a  wax-work  mouth.  It  looked  as  if  such  a  mouth  could 
never  open  in  speech;  it  was  a  mold,  a  cast,  struck  off 
the  face  of  grief.  Slowly,  but  very  surely,  the  old  Pam 
was  being  squeezed  out  of  her  bodily  habitation.  As  a 
house  in  the  hands  of  new  tenantry  loses  its  old  outward 
characteristics  and  takes  on  new  features  of  blinds  and 
curtains  and  window-palms,  so  this  body  of  Pam's  in  the 
hands  of  its  new  possessor  was  beginning  gradually  to 
display  evidences  of  the  invisible  occupant  that,  hidden 
behind  its  walls,  wrung  fingers  and  wept,  and  spent  its 


THE  POST-GIRL  289 

moments  m  the  torturing  austerities  of  self-examination 
and  penance. 

.  .  .  Once  in  her  bedroom,  the  hardness  fell  off  the 
girl's  face  as  though  it  had  been  stucco ;  the  hidden  occu- 
pant came  to  her  trembling  lips,  looked  out  of  her  eyes, 
gazed  forth  upon  the  outer  world,  as  an  escaped  prisoner 
might,  full  of  horror  of  his  position,  and  dreading  every 
moment  the  summons  that  should  announce  his  discovery. 
But  there  were  no  tears  this  time.  Tears  are  but  the  petty 
cash  of  woman's  trouble  account;  the  noisy  silver  and 
copper,  which  make  a  great  jingle,  are  parted  with  and 
never  missed.  Pam's  trouble  was  no  longer  in  silver  and 
copper,  not  in  gold  even.  It  was  in  silent  bank-notes.  All 
the  tears  in  the  world  could  not  liquidate  such  a  liability. 
One  might  as  well  attempt  to  compound  with  a  handful 
of  irate  creditors  out  of  the  loose  coin  at  the  bottom  of 
one's  pocket.  Besides,  it  was  not  sorrow  now,  it  was  hor- 
ror. In  trouble  women  weep;  but  in  horror  they  stare 
with  open  eyes,  for  fear  the  thing  dreaded  may  come 
upon  them  when  they  are  unaware.  So  children,  who 
rain  tears  at  a  dog  by  day,  will  lie  abed  silent  at  night, 
with  their  great,  dry  eyes  fixed  upon  the  darkness,  and 
fear  to  cry  or  close  them.  Tears,  scalding  tears,  were  all 
about  the  hot  lashes  of  the  girl's  eyes ;  but  into  her  eyes 
themselves  they  did  not  enter.  Like  a  thief  she  had 
stolen  round  her  own  door ;  like  a  thief  she  pressed  it  to, 
with  a  hand  over  its  sneck,  and  shot  the  little  catch  under 
the  lock;  like  a  thief  she  listened— she,  who  had  feared 
nothing  before  but  herself  and  her  own  conscience, 
feared  everything  now. 

The  big  grandfather's  clock  downstairs  went 
"Br-r-r-r-r !"  It  was  a  way  he  had;  he  meant  nothing  by 

19 


2QO  THE  POST- GIRL 

it ;  but  it  sent  the  girl's  hand  to  her  bosom  this  morning  as 
though  she  had  heard  in  the  sound  the  announcement  of 
her  whereabouts  to  the  world  at  large.  Now  she  strained 
her  ears  for  the  sounds  of  feet,  the  calling  of  her  own 
name,  the  approach  of  pursuers  .  .  .  but  there  came 
none.  Only  down  below  were  audible  the  muffled  inter- 
mittent click  click  click  of  Emma's  industrious  machine; 
the  tapping  of  the  shoemaker's  hammer ;  the  sound  of  the 
little  kitchen  poker  thrust  energetically  through  the  bars 
of  the  grate  to  rouse  the  sleepy  fire  to  its  duty  by  Mrs. 
Morland;  the  clash  of  saucepan  lids  and  the  jangle  of  a 
pail.  Satisfied  that  her  entrance  had  been  unobserved, 
and  that  the  clock's  warning  had  been  in  vain,  she  un- 
slung  the  post-bag  from  her  shoulder  and  hung  it  over  the 
foot  of  the  bed ;  removed  her  hat  of  red  poppies,  and  laid 
it  on  the  chest  of  drawers. 

What  had  she  come  for?  For  a  moment  even  she  her- 
self seemed  scarcely  to  know,  standing  by  the  bedside 
with  dangling  head  as  though  she  had  been  some  wild 
driven  creature  fleeing  for  refuge,  of  which  now,  in  pos- 
session, she  knew  not  to  make  what  use.  Then  as  she 
stood,  her  right  hand  crept  round  to  the  back  of  her, 
found  the  entrance  to  her  pocket,  burrowed  its  way  out 
of  sight  into  its  depths  like  a  mole;  delved  there  for  a 
while,  lay  still,  and  came  forth  into  the  open,  dragging 
its  prize — something  white  and  square  and  unsubstantial, 
that  crackled  resentfully  under  the  holding.  An  envel- 
ope ;  a  letter. 

In  the  stillness  of  death  the  girl  held  this  helpless  prey 
of  her  fingers  under  gaze  and  stared  at  it.  She  did 
not  read.  It  was  no  act  of  curiosity.  It  was  the  horror- 
struck  stare  of  a  face  that  had  been  seeking  confirmation 


THE  POST-GIRL  291 

of  its  guilt  and  found  it.  She  did  not  look  at  details  of 
writing  or  of  the  address;  she  fastened  her  great  eyes 
upon  the  thing  in  gross— the  four  inches  by  three  of  her 
everlasting  turpitude.  She  had  not  given  it  to  him.  Into 
her  pocket  it  had  gone ;  in  her  pocket  it  had  stayed.  She 
had  stolen  it.  She  was  a  thief ;  a  thief ;  a  thief ! 

On  her  soft,  clean  bed  she  threw  herself  and  lay  face 
downwards,  without  a  tear.  In  her  grief,  as  in  every- 
thing else  that  she  did,  she  was  beautiful.  Her  light  dress 
of  print  gathered  under  her  and  wound  about  her  body 
as  she  rolled,  and  outlined  the  supple  firmness 
of  her  figure  with  something  of  gusto  in  the  task. 
In  abandonment  there  seemed  no  bones  in  it;  it 
was  supple  as  a  salmon;  as  lissom  as  a  wand  of 
green  lancewood.  Backward  or  forward,  this  way, 
that  way,  it  looked  as  though  you  might  have  bent 
it  and  broken  nothing — not  even  its  heart.  Her  ankles, 
dear  indices  to  a  fascinating  volume,  so  sleek  and  tight 
and  flexible,  lost  nothing  by  their  encasement  in  black 
cotton-silk;  into  the  little  soft  leather  Sunday  shoes  her 
feet  fitted  like  a  hand  into  a  glove ;  press  your  thumb  and 
finger  anywhere  and  the  leather  would  gently  resist  you. 
Poor  little  shoes,  that  had  walked  so  happily  in  their  time, 
how  very  still  and  lifeless  they  lay  now,  side  by  side  on 
the  white  counterpane,  with  their  soles  still  fresh  and 
lemon-colored,  turned  pathetically  towards  the  foot-rail. 
This  burden  at  least  is  too  heavy  for  you,  little  patient 
strugglers.  And  little  arms  that  had  swung  so  blithely; 
how  resistless  you  are  now.  Many  lovers  have  sought  to 
be  enfolded  within  them  in  their  time,  but  you  have  re- 
pulsed them  all.  Now  is  come  a  lover  whom  you  cannot 
repulse.  They  shall  clasp  him,  unresisting,  and  he  shall 


292  THE  POST-GIRL 

enter  them.  Shame  is  your  lover.  He  has  been  in  your 
waking  dreams  all  this  night  past,  seen  dimly  and  dis- 
torted. Now  you  have  him  face  to  face.  Lie  still  in  his 
arms  and  be  mute  before  the  hot  caress  of  his  kisses. 
Your  Gingers  and  your  James  Maskills,  your  doctors, 
your  parsons,  your  schoolmasters,  your  Jevons,  and  your 
Steggisons  have  sought  you  in  the  flesh,  but  this  lover 
has  found  you  through  the  spirit.  Now  that  the  spirit  is 
surrendered  the  flesh  lies  prone  enough. 

Poor  beautiful  flesh.  Even  Shame's  kisses  cannot  cor- 
rupt the  beauty  of  it.  In  this  moment  of  its  weakness 
and  surrender,  if  the  Spawer  could  but  be  witness  of  you, 
it  is  probable  (only  you  do  not  know  it)  that  your  defeat 
would  gain  you  the  victory.  For  the  weakness  of  a  wo- 
man is  her  strength,  and  to  see  beauty  so  overthrown,  by 
a  lover  less  relenting  than  himself,  rouses  a  man's  best 
instincts  of  honor  and  protecting  chivalry. 

But  the  Spawer  is  three  good  miles  away,  and  cannot 
enter  damsels'  bedrooms  as  the  sun  does.  Perhaps,  as 
human  nature  is  constituted,  it  is  well.  If  you  cried  on 
him  he  could  not  hear  you,  and  with  that  label  of  your 
guilt  between  your  fingers,  though  you  knew  he  could 
hear  you,  you  dared  not  cry. 

Poor  child!  Poor  child!  So  young,  so  beautiful,  and 
so  wicked!  So  dreadfully,  horribly  wicked! 

To  say  that  she  thought  would  be  to  convey  a  wrong 
impression  of  her  state.  Thought,  like  her  eyes,  was 
wide  open,  but  it  did  not  think — any  more  than  her  eyes 
saw.  It  stared— stared  fixedly,  without  blinking,  at  the 
consciousness  of  her  great  wickedness. 

Dreadful  images  passed  over  the  darkened  curtain  of 
life,  like  the  pictures  of  a  magic-lantern. 


THE  POST- GIRL  293 

In  Sproutgreen  a  poor  girl  had  taken  some  clothes  that 
did  not  belong  to  her.  Only  a  bodice  (very  much  worn), 
an  old  skirt,  a  vest  or  two  (she  was  badly  off  for  vests), 
and  some  stockings.  She  had  not  meant  to  take  them, 
she  said  .  .  .  but  all  the  same  she  had  taken  them,  and 
they  had  sent  her  to  prison. 

That  picture  showed  on  Pam's  screen  too. 

She  had  not  meant  to  take  it.  No,  no;  but  she  had 
taken  it.  Why  should  n't  she  be  sent  to  prison?  Why 
should  the  one  poor  girl  be  made  to  suffer  and  she  go 
free? 

A  man  in  Hunmouth  had  stolen  a  leg  of  mutton  from 
a  butcher's  shop  when  the  butcher's  back  was  all  but 
turned.  If  he  'd  only  waited  a  moment  longer  or  set  off 
a  moment  sooner  all  would  have  been  well.  But  his  wife 
was  starving  and  he  was  in  a  hurry.  He  wanted  the  mut- 
ton ...  it  was  noble  of  him  to  risk  himself  for  a  dying 
wife.  But  the  law  recognises  no  nobility  in  theft,  and 
sent  him  to  prison. 

That  picture  showed  on  Pam's  mind  too. 

She  was  n't  starving;  there  was  no  excuse  for  her, 
even  of  pity.  She  had  stolen  something  she  did  n't  want. 
She  was  a  thief,  unworthy  to  receive  the  weight  of  hon- 
est people's  eyes.  Looks  now,  the  lightest  of  them, 
smiles  and  glances,  were  all  insufferable  burdens  depos- 
ited upon  the  bowed  shoulders  of  her  shame. 

Poor  girl!  poor,  unhappy  girl!  Wrong  from  first  to 
last.  Seeing  the  world  upside  down.  Cast  forth  from 
the  cool  leafy  oasis  of  hope  into  the  burning  desert  of 
despair.  If  she  could  have  taken  but  one  peep  into  the 
man's  heart  the  rain  of  blessed  relief  would  have  fallen 
in  abundance ;  she  would  have  kissed  that  dread  letter  for 


294  THE  POST-GIRL 

token  of  her  forgiveness;  would  have  risen,  smiling  in 
glory,  like  the  sun  through  April  clouds. 

But  she  could  not  see.  These  two  souls,  surcharged 
with  their  vapors  of  unshed  trouble,  that  only  needed  to 
come  together  to  combine  and  pour  forth  all  their  misery 
in  one  great  shower  of  gladness  and  rejoicing — these  two 
souls  lay  asunder. 

While  the  girl  stared  dumbly  into  the  blackness  of  her 
pillow,  the  man  gazed  with  the  vacant  stare  of  a  harmless 
idiot  over  Dixon's  first  gate.  If  his  state  had  been  hope- 
less before,  he  told  himself,  it  seemed  doubly  hopeless 
now. 

To  be  sentimental  by  moonlight  was  one  thing,  but  for 
a  man  ostensibly  in  the  marriage-bespoke  department  to 
manreuvre  a  wide-awake  girl  into  the  laneways  of  emo- 
tion was  a  very  different  thing  indeed.  All  their  yester- 
day's sentimentalism  was  so  much  trade  discount  knocked 
off  their  relations;  he  was  at  cost  price  now,  and  some- 
thing under.  The  whole  time  of  their  interview  this 
morning  she  was  unmistakably  trying  to  shake  him  off; 
had  been  inventing  urgent  reasons  why  she  must  be  get- 
ting back;  had  n't  a  word  to  say  for  herself  beyond 
transparent  excuses  to  get  away;  could  n't  say  what  she 
was  going  to  be  doing  this  afternoon ;  could  n't  say  what 
she  was  going  to  be  doing  to-night ;  could  n't  say  whether 
she  should  see  him  to-morrow ;  could  n't  say,  apparently, 
whether  she  'd  ever  see  him  again;  had  almost  torn 
herself  away  from  him  in  the  end.  What  was  he  to 
think?  What  was  he  to  say?  What  was  he  to  do? 

He  was  a  sick  man  now,  and  no  mistake.  His  very  in- 
ternals tormented  him,  as  though  he  were  a  storm-tossed, 
drifting  ship,  and  he  saw  land  and  the  girl  receding 


THE  POST-GIRL  295 

from  him  hopelessly  on  the  horizon.    How  to  reach  her? 
How  to  get  back  to  her?    How  still  to  save  himself? 

Alas,  during  these  moments  of  wounded  love  and  pride, 
for  the  Other  One! 


CHAPTER  XXV 

IN  one  swift  headlong  descent  of  crime  Pam  had  sud- 
denly arrived  at  the  awful  pitch  of  robbing  Her  Maj- 
esty's mail. 

She  had  vague  terrorised  notions  of  the  penal  code  and 
the  shameful  penalty  of  her  crime,  but  her  horror  for 
what  the  world  would  inflict  upon  her,  to  ease  its  con- 
science of  the  various  offences  it  commits  itself,  was  ex- 
ceeded by  the  horror  with  which  self  regarded  self.  And 
she  had  horror,  too,  of  the  unutterable  horror  that  would 
prevail  in  this  house,  so  still  and  peaceful  at  present,  sup- 
posing her  crime  were  brought  home  to  her  and  exposed. 
She  saw  the  awe-struck  face  of  the  postmaster,  sitting 
with  his  mouth  open  and  empty  of  words  under  the  in- 
credible calamity  of  her  shame ;  she  saw  Emma  Morland 
looking  at  her,  part  in  anger,  part  in  unbelief,  part  in 
compassion;  she  saw  James  Maskill  obstinately  refusing 
to  meet  her  eye,  and  pretending  to  whistle  in  shocked  ab- 
straction; she  saw  her  one  act  extended  and  dramatised 
to  its  very  close  at  Sproutgreen  Court-house,  as  clearly 
as  though  her  soul  were  a  theater,  luridly  lighted, 
and  she  were  sitting  in  the  pit  ...  a  horrified,  helpless, 
untearful  spectator  of  her  own  downfall. 

All  suddenly  the  course  of  the  drama  was  disturbed. 
There  was  a  sound  of  doors  downstairs ;  voices  mixed  in 
question  and  answer.  She  held  her  breath  and  listened. 
Her  heart  gave  a  great  bump  and  seemed  to  stop  alto- 
gether. So  vivid  was  her  conception  of  her  crime  that 


THE  POST-GIRL  297 

her  mind  accepted  these  noises  as  indisputable  notifica- 
tion of  its  detection.  All  the  world  was  astir  about  the 
stolen  letter.  The  policeman  was  there;  the  machinery 
of  the  law  was  in  motion.  They  were  come  to  take  her. 
They  would  all  be  waiting  for  her  below.  She  saw  them 
in  a  blinding  group,  with  the  stragglers  beyond,  about  the 
Post  Office  door;  children  flattening  their  noses  and 
sticking  their  tongues  grotesquely  against  the  panes  for  a 
sight  inside;  licking  their  fingers  and  drawing  slimy 
tracks  over  the  glass.  And  then  she  heard  her  name 
uttered — that  hateful  name  that  was  become  now  as  a 
second  word  for  sin.  The  sound  of  it  sent  a  shudder 
through  her  to  the  soles  of  her  lemon -colored  shoes. 

"Pam.  .  .  ."  It  was  Emma  Morland's  voice  that 
called  her.  "Pam!  Are  ye  there?" 

Instinctively  she  clutched  the  tell-tale  letter  in  her  hand 
and  scrambled  off  the  bed.  Her  first  thought  was  for 
the  little  dressing-table.  She  pulled  up  the  looking-glass 
(ah,  that  was  no  liar)  ;  rubbed  her  cheeks  with  her  hands 
to  try  and  soften  their  haggardness;  smoothed  her  hair 
rapidly;  shook  out  her  skirts,  and  passed  on  trembling 
legs  to  the  door.  Her  name  met  her  a  second  time  as 
she  opened  it,  from  a  few  steps  further  up  the  stairs,  and 
more  urgently  uttered. 

"Pam!  .  .  .  Are  ye  there?" 

Her  mouth  was  dry;  her  lips  felt  cracked  like  crust; 
her  tongue  a  piece  of  red  flannel,  but  her  voice  might 
have  been  less  unsteady — as  it  might  also  have  been 
louder — when  she  answered. 

"I  'm  here,"  she  said,  and  with  an  effort  to  divert  sus- 
picion and  appear  unconcerned;  ".  .  .  do  you  want  me, 
Emma?" 


298  THE  POST-GIRL 

A  guilty  person  would  never  ask:  ".  .  .  do  you  want 
me?"  A  guilty  person  would  know  too  well,  and  not 
dare  to  risk  the  question.  Don't  you  understand?  Cun- 
ning, you  see,  was  coming  to  her  help— now  that  she  was 
enlisted  in  the  devil's  own  army.  When  the  crime  is  once 
committed,  when  we  have  taken  the  infernal  shilling  and 
the  devil  is  sure  of  us,  he  does  not  stint  his  soldiers  with 
the  armament  of  craft. 

"Did  n't  ye  'ear  me  callin'  of  ye?"  Miss  Morland  in- 
quired, with  some  sharpness  of  reproof  at  having  been 
kept  at  the  occupation. 

"...  I  can't  have  done,"  said  Pam.  ".  .  .  Have  you 
been  calling  long  ?" 

"Ah  've  been  callin'  loud  enough,  onny  road,"  Miss 
Morland  protested.  "What  's  gotten  ye  upstairs?" 

Pam's  fingers  tightened  their  hold  of  the  letter  in  her 
pocket. 

"...  I  've  been  .  .  ."—she  cast  a  beseeching  look 
around  the  room  for  inspiration;  the  devil  furnished  her 
at  once — "washing  myself." 

"Goodness  wi'  ye!  En't  ye  washed  yersen  once  this 
mornin'  ?" 

"I  've  been  .  .  .  having  another.    It  's  so  hot  outside." 

"Ye  mud  be  a  mucky  un  bi  t'  way  ye  stan'  i'  need  o' 
soap  an'  watter.  Ye  do  nowt  else,  ah  think.  Come  down  wi' 
ye  noo  an'  set  dinner  things,  will  ye?  It  's  about  time." 

Only  that!  Not  detection;  not  discovery  and  shame. 
Only  to  lay  the  dinner  things.  And  she  had  been  paying 
for  that  moment  with  all  the  horror  and  heart-burning 
and  trembling  of  knees  for  the  real  shame  itself.  What 
prodigality  of  terror!  What  an  outrageous  price  to  pay 
for  a  mere  worthless  alarm ! 


THE  POST-GIRL  299 

Now  it  seemed  to  her  her  body  was  turned  to  glass. 
Every  thought  within  her  she  felt  must  be  visible 
through  its  transparent  covering,  as  though  she  had  been 
but  a  shop-window  for  the  display  of  her  delinquencies. 
Down  at  the  bottom  of  her  pocket,  smothered  beneath  her 
handkerchief,  and  her  hand  most  frequently  over  that,  lay 
the  object  of  her  crime.  'She  dared  not  turn  her  back  for 
long  lest  they  should  see  it  through  her  clothing.  If  it 
had  been  buried  under  the  red  flags  of  the  kitchen  their 
eyes  would  have  been  drawn  to  it  and  found  it.  They 
had  lynx  eyes,  of  a  sudden,  all  of  them.  They  pricked 
her  through  and  through  with  strange  test-glances,  as 
though  they  were  trying  the  flesh  of  a  pigeon  with  a  fork. 
When  she  put  her  hand  to  her  pocket  to  reassure  herself, 
at  some  horrid  suspicion,  that  the  letter  was  still  there 
.  .  .  their  eyes  taxed  the  action  and  charged  her  at  once, 
seeming  to  say :  "Ah !  .  .  .  what  's  that  ?  Did  something 
crinkle?" 

Even  the  handkerchief,  in  which  she  had  placed  her 
trust  to  hold  down  and  choke  the  evidence  of  her  guilt, 
narrowly  missed  betraying  her  outright  into  the  hands  of 
her  enemies.  It  was  after  dinner.  They  were  all  rising 
from  the  table,  and  for  some  reason,  Pam  could  not  say 
why — unless  it  was  that  she  felt  some  concentrated  look 
upon  her  from  behind  and  wished  to  perform  a  trifling 
act  of  unconcern  to  divert  suspicion — but  all  at  once  she 
found  herself  with  the  handkerchief  in  her  hand,  and 
heard,  at  the  very  moment  that  her  own  fear  shot  like  a 
dart  through  her  breast,  the  keen  voice  of  Emma: 

"See-ye;  what  's  that  ye  've  dropped  o'  floor?  A  letter 
bi  t'  looks  on  it." 

In  a  flash   Pam  spun  round  upon  the  white  square 


300  THE  POST-GIRL 

upon  the  red  tiles.  The  schoolmaster  had  already 
perceived  it,  and  come  forward  to  relieve  her  of  the  ne- 
cessity for  stooping;  his  hand  was  outstretched  when  she 
turned,  but  she  almost  flung  herself  in  front  of  him  and 
snatched  the  letter  from  under  his  fingers.  It  was  a 
dreadful  display  of  distrust  and  suspicion.  Her  breath 
came  and  went,  between  shame  for  her  act  and  terror  for 
the  alternative,  while  she  stood  before  him,  thrusting  the 
letter  into  the  pocket  at  the  back  of  her,  with  a  face  like 
a  flaming  scarlet  poppy,  and  a  breast  rising  and  falling, 
as  though  he  had  been  seeking  to  wrest  the  missive  from 
her.  As  for  Emma  Morland,  accustomed  as  she  was 
growing  to  novel  demonstrations  of  the  girl's  character, 
this  present  act  so  eclipsed  all  previous  records,  and  ran 
so  counter  to  everything  that  experience  had  ever  taught 
her  of  Pam,  that  she  gasped  in  audible  amazement.  The 
schoolmaster,  on  his  side,  awkwardly  placed— as  one 
whose  undesired  services  seem  to  savor  of  meddlesome- 
ness—flushed up  to  the  high  roots  of  his  hair,  and  then 
slowly,  very,  very  slowly,  commenced  to  whiten  all  over 
till  his  face,  his  lips,  his  neck  even  seemed  turned,  like 
Lot's  wife,  into  salt. 

If  Pam  had  but  allowed  him  to  return  the  letter,  it  is 
quite  probable  that  he  might  have  had  the  good  feeling  to 
raise  it  from  the  floor  and  hand  it  to  her  with  his  eyes 
upon  hers,  as  a  guarantee  of  good  faith.  On  the  other 
hand,  it  was  equally  probable  that  he  might  not.  In  any 
case,  the  risk  would  have  been  truly  a  heavy  one  to  run. 
But  now,  though  Pam  had  saved  herself  from  open  de- 
tection, it  was  only  at  the  cost  of  a  suspicion  that  hence- 
forth would  keep  its  wide  eye  upon  her  every  action. 
Love  is  a  terrible  detective;  it  has  no  conscience;  knows 


THE  POST-GIRL  301 

no  more  than  a  criminal  to  discern  between  right  and 
wrong.  Everything  that  it  does  it  does  for  love.  The 
things  done  are  nothing.  The  thing  done  for  is  all.  Back 
into  Pam's  pocket  went  the  accursed  germ  of  crime  and 
misery  which  she  must  hug  so  closely — though  she  would 
have  given  her  unhappy  soul  to  be  rid  of  it. 

But  there  was  no  safety  in  her  pocket  now ;  all  her  con- 
fidence in  a  personal  possession  fled  from  her.  Her  hand 
seemed  sewn  into  her  dress,  by  its  anxiety  to  keep  as- 
sured of  the  letter's  safety.  For  everything  that  she  did 
with  her  right  hand  she  did  half  a  dozen  with  her  .left. 

And  even  that  tried  to  betray  her. 

"What  'a  ye  done  at  yersen  ?"  Miss  Morland  asked  her 
tartly,  when  she  saw  her  collecting  the  glasses  lamely  off 
the  table  with  the  left  hand,  and  the  other  one  missing. 
".  .  .  'A  ye  cutten  yer  finger  ?" 

"No.  .  .  ." 

Pam  jerked  it  quickly  into  use  and  showed  desperate 
activity  with  it.  Also,  she  cast  a  fearful  look  over  her 
elbow,  lest  she  should  see  the  condemnatory  square  of 
white  lying  on  the  floor  at  the  back  of  her,  blinking  ma- 
liciously at  her  discomposure.  The  letter  seemed,  in  her 
imagination,  suddenly  instinct  with  the  diabolical  desire 
to  work  her  ruin.  She  could  no  longer  trust  it  about  her. 
Up  to  her  room  she  betook  herself  at  the  first  favorable 
opportunity— which  was  the  first  that  Emma's  back  hap- 
pened to  be  turned.  In  the  low,  long  drawer  of  the  ward- 
robe, deep  beneath  confidential  articles  of  personal  attire- 
ment,  she  buried  it  in  the  furthermost  corner,  as  far  as 
arm  could  reach.  Then  she  squeezed  the  drawer  to  again 
noiselessly,  and  standing  back,  applied  her  gaze  in-  terrible 
assiduity  to  see  whether  the  wardrobe  showed  any  out- 


302  THE  POST- GIRL 

ward  and  visible  signs  of  having  been  tampered  with  for 
improper  purposes.  There  was  nothing  suspicious  that 
she  could  discover.  The  knobs  spun  wickedly,  and 
winked  at  her  in  devilish  confraternity : 

"Aha,  not  a  word.  Trust  us.  We  know ;  we  know !" 
The  afternoon  drew  on  with  a  humming  and  a  droning, 
and  a  buzzing  and  a  whirring,  and  a  tick-tacking  and  a 
hammering,  all  mixed  up  sleepily  together  in  thick  sun- 
light, like  the  flies  in  Fussitter's  golden  syrup.  The  post- 
master slept  on  his  little  bench  in  the  shoemakery,  with 
his  head  back  against  the  wall,  and  his  mouth  open  like 
the  letter-box  outside,  and  Ginger  Gatheredge's  left  boot 
between  his  knees,  sole  upward,  and  a  hammer  in  one 
hand  and  the  other  thrown  out  empty — with  the  sort  of 
mute,  supplicating  gesture  towards  the  inexorable  that 
one  associates  with  rent-day.  Mrs.  Morland  had  slipped 
out  to  Mrs.  Fussitter's,  and  would  be  back  in  a  minute — 
without  committing  herself  to  say  which.  Emma  was  in 
the  trying-on  room,  with  her  mouth  all  pinned  up;  there 
must  have  been,  at  one  moment,  a  dozen  tucks  in  at  least. 
The  schoolmaster  was  in  the  second  kitchen.  Pam  was 
in  the  first.  She  knew  where  he  was ;  her  ears  were  alert 
to  every  sound  in  the  house,  but  she  did  not  know  that 
he  was  keeping  guard  over  her  with  a  terrible  check  of 
concentration  and  listening  apprehension.  She  was 
frightened  he  might  be  going  to  seek  a  conversation  with 
her,  but  she  need  have  no  fear  of  this  had  she  only 
known.  He  was  as  frightened  of  such  a  meeting— for 
different  reasons— as  she.  Suspicion  was  consuming  him 
again  in  silence,  like  the  old  former  flame  of  his  love.  He 
dared  not  trust  himself  to  words;  he  could  only 
listen.  Only  desired  to  listen  and  keep  always 
near  her.  He  trusted  her  no  more  than  if  she  'd 


THE  POST-GIRL  303 

been  a  declared  pickpocket.  Love  without  any  foun- 
dation of  faith  is  a  terrible  thing,  and  his  love  was 
a  terrible  thing.  He  had  loved  her  before  as  he  would 
have  loved  an  angel;  his  own  unworthiness  alone  had 
made  him  fear  for  the  getting  of  her.  Now  he  loved  her 
no  less — deeper,  indeed — but  it  was  the  love  for  a  beauti- 
ful and  treacherous  syren.  His  love  was  as  unworthy  as 
he  believed  hers  to  be.  He  knew  not  to  what  extent  she 
would  practise  her  deadly  deceptions,  and  in  holding 
himself  prepared  for  any,  his  mind  outstepped  them  all. 
He  opened  a  book — it  was  a  volume  of  Batty's  hymns — 
and  laid  it  on  the  table  to  be  ready  as  an  excuse,  should 
any  be  needed.  And  there  he  sat,  with  the  flat  of  his 
face  strained  towards  the  kitchen  beyond,  where  he 
heard  the  girl  astir. 

For  a  while,  so  far  as  Pam  was  concerned,  in  her  soli- 
tary occupancy  of  the  kitchen,  she  was  free  from  actual 
alarms.  Only  her  mind  troubled  her ;  asking  her  how  she 
was  going  to  repair  this  great  wrong  that  she  had  done — 
for  she  had  no  wilful  intention  of  retaining  the  letter.  All 
her  mind  was  concentrated  upon  the  hazy  means  of  its 
safe  delivery.  All  her  fears  were  lest  shame  of  discovery 
should  fall  upon  her  before  she  could  make  redress.  And 
these  fears  were  not  groundless.  The  task  of  redress 
seemed  more  difficult  as  she  looked  at  it.  In  the  first 
place,  the  letter  bore  the  date  of  its  Hunmouth  stamping 
conspicuously  on  its  face.  Had  the  Ullbrig  office  had  the 
stamping  of  its  own  letters,  how  easy  it  would  have  been 
to  re-stamp  over  the  old  postmark.  But  coming  and  go- 
ing, all  the  letters  were  stamped  in  Hunmouth.  Oh,  why 
had  n't  Government  trusted  them  with  the  stamping  of 
their  own?  So  much  better  it  would  have  been— so  much 
better.  Yet  since  there  was  no  possibility  of  altering  the 


304  THE  POST-GIRL 

tell-tale  postmark,  what  was  to  be  done?  If  she  took  the 
letter  as  it  was  ...  he  might  remark  the  date,  remem- 
ber having  come  upon  her  when  she  was  reading  some- 
thing, remember  having  seen  her  put  something  hurriedly 
into  her  pocket,  remember  her  confusion  when  he  asked 
whether  there  was  any  letter  for  him  .  .  .  piece  it  all  to- 
gether and  learn  that  she  'd  robbed  him. 

And  till  he  got  this  letter  ...  he  would  stay  at  Cliff 
Wrangham. 

And  there  might  be  other  things  in  it  besides. 

Money,  for  instance.  Notes  that  She  wanted  him  to 
put  into  the  bank  for  her.  That  made  Pam  feel  very  ill. 
Notes — bank-notes!  Those  would  mean  transportation 
...  or  something,  for  life,  would  n't  they?  The  kitchen 
felt  of  a  sudden  so  small  and  hot  and  cell-like  that  she 
could  bear  it  no  longer.  She  slipped  out  feverishly  into 
the  garden.  There,  among  the  potatoes  and  cabbages 
she  made  a  turn  or  two,  but  it  was  such  an  unusual  thing 
for  her  to  do,  and  she  was  so  afraid  lest  its  strangeness 
might  set  other  eyes  to  industry  concerning  her  altered 
state,  that  the  fear  that  had  driven  her  out  drove  her  in 
again.  Back  she  came  from  under  the  burning  sun  into 
the  stewpot  of  a  kitchen.  And  there,  all  at  once,  she 
heard  a  horrible  sound  from  overhead  that  stunned  her 
intelligence  like  a  cruel  box  on  the  ears.  The  next  mo- 
ment she  was  racing  up  the  little  twisted  staircase  with 
the  horrid  stealth  and  the  concentrated  purpose  of  a  ti- 
gress. To  her  bedroom  she  fled  on  swift,  noiseless  feet; 
crouched  by  the  door  for  a  moment  to  make  sure,  and  pre- 
pare her  spring,  and  pounced  in  terrible  silence  upon  the 
curved  figure  of  the  postmaster's  daughter,  on  her  knees 
by  the  fatal  drawer  of  the  wardrobe. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

WHAT  are  you  doing  there?"  she  panted  breathlessly. 
-"Lawks,  lass."  The  figure  of  Miss  Morland 
sprang  upward  like  a  startled  Jack-in-the-box  and  caught 
at  the  open  drawer  to  prevent  an  overbalancement  on  to 
her  back.  "What  a  start  ye  gied  me,  comin'  in  on  a  body 
like  that.  Y'  ought  to  'ad  more  sense.  Ah  thought  ye 
wor  far  enough." 

"You  have  ...  no  right  here,"  Pam  said,  desperately 
trying  to  justify  her  entrance.  "This  is  my  room.  You 
have  no  right  in  my  room.  What  are  you  doing  in  that 
drawer  ?  You  ought  to  have  .  .  .  asked  my  permission." 

For  a  moment  Miss  Morland's  face  was  a  kaleidoscope 
of  conflicting  emotions.  Her  mind  apparently  was  in 
such  rapid  progress  that  her  words  could  n't  descend,  like 
passengers  at  the  door  of  a  railway  carriage,  until  the 
train  had  sufficiently  slowed  up. 

"Oh,  mah  wod!"  she  ejaculated,  rising  to  her  feet  at 
length  in  rare  display  of  dudgeon,  and  wiping  the  un- 
worthy lint  of  Pam's  carpet  off  her  knees  as  though  it 
were  contamination.  "Things  is  come  tiv  a  pretty  state 
when  ah  've  to  ask  ye  whether  ye  've  ganned  an'  putten 
mah  red  petticawt  i'  your  drawer  by  mistake.  Mah  wod, 
they  'ave  an'  all.  Ye  mud  think  a  body  wanted  to  rob  ye. 
What  's  come  tiv  ye?" 

Even  now,  with  that  fatal  drawer  thrown  open,  and  the 
signs  of  rummaging  visible  about  the  surface,  Pam  dared 

20  305 


306  THE  POST-GIRL 

not  retreat  from  her  standpoint.  (Oh,  my  Heaven!  it 
was  n't  her  standpoint  at  all.  She  had  n't  made  it. 
Had  n't  wished  it.  Up  till  now  Emma  had  had  the  run 
of  this  room  unchallenged.  But  Pam  was  but  a  poor,  un- 
resisting tool  in  the  hands  of  her  terror.)  She  dared  not 
give  Emma  permission  to  continue  the  search.  She 
dared  not  say  she  was  sorry.  She  dared  not  abate  one  jot 
or  tittle  of  her  loathsome  simulated  indignation.  She 
could  n't  breathe  until  that  drawer  was  safely  shut. 

"If  you  had  asked  me  .  .  ."  she  began. 

"Ah  don't  want  to  ask  ye  nowt,"  Miss  Morland  said 
contemptuously.  "Ye  tell  me  nowt  bud  lies." 

Pam's  lip  quivered  with  fear  and  reproach.  How  much 
did  Emma  suspect?  How  much  did  she  know?  How 
much  had  she  seen? 

"You  have  no  right  ...  to  say  that,  I  think,  Emma," 
she  protested. 

It  was  less  a  protest  than  a  tremulous  feeler,  to  sound 
the  depths  of  Emma's  knowledge.  But  she  quaked  for 
results. 

"No,  ah  en't,"  Miss  Morland  acquiesced,  with  the  ter- 
rible force  of  agreement  that  means  so  much  dissent. 
"Ah  s'd  think  ye  was  just  comin'  upstairs  to  get  yersen 
washed  again,  when  ye  dropped  o'  me." 

"I  will  look  for  the  petticoat  ...  if  you  wish,"  Pam 
offered  humbly.  "But  I  don't  think  it  's  here.  Which  one 
did  you  say  it  was,  Emma?" 

"Ah  did  n't  say  it  was  onny  un,"  Miss  Morland  de- 
clared, repudiating  the  olive  branch.  "Ah  don't  want  ye 
to  look  for  owt.  Ah  '11  do  wi'oot  petticawt  sin'  ah  'm  not 
fit  to  be  trusted.  Ay,  an'  ye  need  n't  trust  me.  Ah  don't 
trust  you.  Ah  know  very  well  ye  're  agate  o'  seummut 


THE  POST- GIRL  307 

ye  'd  for  shame  to  be  fun'  [found]  out  in.  Where  's 
waiter  ye  washed  i'  this  mornin'  before  dinner?  An'  'oo's 
been  liggin'  [lying]  o'  t'  bed?  Cat,  ah  s'd  think.  Folks 
is  n't  blind  if  ye  think  they  are.  .  .  .  Noo,  get  yersen 
washed  agen.  -Ah  'm  about  tired  o'  ye." 

At  which  Miss  Morland  slammed  to  the  drawer  per- 
emptorily with  her  knee,  and  flounced  past  Pam  in  a  fine 
show  of  injured  pride  and  indignation.  And  Pam  never 
questioned  the  justice  of  her  wrath.  Emma  was  right  to 
be  angry.  Pam  had  treated  her  shamefully,  shamefully, 
shamefully.  Oh,  never  did  she  think  in  the  hours  of  her 
happiness  that  she  would  ever  have  come  to  treat  Emma 
like  this.  To  suspect  her;  to  approach  upon  her  by 
stealth ;  to  use  harsh  words  to  her ;  to  offend  her  so  need- 
lessly and  so  cruelly. 

All  the  same,  as  soon  as  the  feet  of  the  postmaster's 
daughter  had  departed  downstairs,  telling  the  tale  of 
their  indignation  loudly  to  every  step  on  the  way  and 
banging  it  into  the  door  at  the  bottom,  the  girl  dropped  on 
her  knees,  opened  the  drawer  anew,  and  commenced  to 
examine  the  depth  and  nature  of  Emma's  exploration. 
Heart,  soul,  and  body,  suspicion  now  was  eating  her  up 
piecemeal.  With  the  lapse  of  her  own  trust  she  trusted 
nobody.  Carefully  she  turned  up  the  articles  one  by  one, 
to  see  how  far  signs  of  recent  disturbance  extended. 
Thank  goodness,  they  were  mainly  at  the  top.  She  sent 
her  wriggling  right  arm  to  that  furthermost  corner  at  the 
bottom  of  the  drawer,  and  the  letter  was  there;  there  (re- 
lief and  reawakened  misery)  flat  as  she  had  laid  it. 

But  this  incident  had  shaken  Pam's  nerve.  Her  faith 
in  the  room  was  shattered,  and  in  agony  of  spirit  she  cast 
her  eyes  about  on  all  sides  of  her  to  decide  where  now 


308  THE  POST-GIRL 

she  could  best  deposit  this  horrid  possession.  Thoughts 
of  sewing  it  into  a  little  flannel  band  and  wearing  it 
across  her  breast  occurred  to  her.  But  all  sorts  of  dread- 
ful things  might  happen.  She  might  fall;  she  might 
faint;  some  sudden  accident  might  overtake  her;  she 
might  drop  down  dead  even,  or  dying;  willing  hands 
might  tear  open  her  dress-body  and  exhume  this  frightful 
secret  from  its  shallow  grave.  To  such  an  extent  did  she 
foresee  disaster  of  this  sort,  that  the  mere  wearing  of  the 
letter  seemed  a  courting  of  it.  It  was  like  shaking  her 
fist  in  the  face  of  Providence. 

And  then  of  a  sudden  she  bethought  herself.  In  the 
front  parlor  downstairs  was  a  little  inlaid  brass  and 
mother-of-pearl  writing-desk  that  Father  Mostyn  had 
given  her.  Once  she  had  made  regular  use  of  it  for  such 
small  writing  as  she  had,  but  now  never.  It  had  become 
elevated  from  an  article  of  use  to  an  article  of  household 
adornment;  one  of  those  penates — ornamental  fetiches, 
with  which  all  rustic  parlors  abound.  To  open  it  almost 
was  an  act  of  profanity,  except  for  Pam.  Pam  had  one 
or  two  little  treasures  of  a  personal  nature  that  she  was 
guarding  zealously,  and  the  household  law  could  be 
stretched  a  point  to  allow  her  a  sight  of  these  possessions 
from  time  to  time,  so  long  as  she  did  not  abuse  the  privi- 
lege. True,  there  was  no  key— but  then,  respect  of  sa- 
cred tradition  was  as  good  as  any  key.  Nobody  had  ever 
looked  into  the  desk  but  Pam  since  its  sanctification. 
Why  should  they  look  now?  Down  to  the  front  parlor 
she  worked  her  way,  disguising  the  directness  of  her 
journey  with  the  cunningest  side  errands,  doublings  and 
confusings  of  her  tracks. 

It  was  but  the  work  of  a  moment  to  open  the  desk,  but 


THE  POST-GIRL  309 

quick  as  she  was  about  it  the  door  of  the  second  kitchen, 
that  led  out  into  the  passage,  opened  in  the  meanwhile, 
and  she  heard  the  schoolmaster  emerge.  There  was  no 
time  to  dwell  upon  the  details  of  the  letter's  concealment. 
Between  the  two  leaves  of  the  desk  she  thrust  it, 
pushed  the  desk  back  into  its  place,  reinstated  the  china 
shepherdess  on  its  polished  top,  and  picking  up  the 
crystal  letter-weight,  with  the  vivid  picture  of  Southport 
in  colors  beneath  its  great  magnifying  eye,  engrossed 
herself  in  the  examination  of  this— her  scarlet  neck 
and  burning  ears  turned  resolutely  towards  the  door- 
way. 

For  some  moments,  standing  silent,  a  statue  of  guilt 
surprised,  with  her  heart  turning  somersaults  inside  her 
and  her  voice  miles  away  had  it  been  called  upon — she  al- 
most believed  that  the  schoolmaster  had  entered  the  par- 
lor. It  seemed  she  was  conscious  of  his  presence  advanc- 
ing behind  her;  could  feel  his  eyes  boring  through  and 
through  her  like  live  coal.  So  tense  was  her  feeling,  and 
so  imperative  the  summons  of  that  unseen  gaze,  that  in 
sheer  self-defence  she  was  constrained  to  lay  down  the 
letter-weight  and  turn  round  quaveringly  to  meet  her  ac- 
cuser. 

But  there  was  none  to  meet.  The  room  was  empty  of 
any  but  herself.  For  all  she  knew,  the  whole  circum- 
stance—  from  the  opening  of  the  kitchen  door  to  the 
schoolmaster's  entrance — was  a  mere  fabrication  of  her 
tortured  nerves.  And  now  she  would  have  liked  to  bring 
forth  the  desk  anew  and  do  her  hiding  over  again  more 
thoroughly,  but  she  dared  not,  lest  she  might  be  disturbed 
in  real  fact.  Minutes  she  waited  there,  with  her  hand  on 
her  bosom,  listening  for  the  selection  of  a  moment  that 


310  THE  POST-GIRL 

should  seem  propitious.  "Now,"  she  kept  urging  herself; 
and  "now,"  "now,"  "now !" 

But  whenever  she  extended  an  arm  some  warning 
voice  within  her  cried:  "Wait  .  .  .  what  was  that?"  At 
times  it  was  but  the  creaking  of  her  own  corset;  the 
straining  of  her  leather  belt;  the  rustle  of  her  dress.  But 
it  always  arrested  her  short  of  her  intention;  it  always 
seemed  that  the  house  woke  into  movement  the  minute 
she  sought  to  revise  her  work. 

And  last  of  all,  when  she  had  wasted  enough  favorable 
moments  for  the  doing  of  her  work  twenty  times  over, 
she  grew  frightened  that  this  continued  propitiousness  of 
circumstance  was  too  good— like  summer  weather— to 
last.  Every  moment  now  must  see  its  break-up  and  dis- 
solution; every  moment  added  to  her  risk.  And  in  this 
she  was  right.  Of  a  sudden  the  sewing-machine  stopped 
with  a  premonitory  abruptness,  and  she  heard  its  owner 
astir.  With  a  haunting  sense  of  dejection  and  misery  for 
what  she  had  failed  to  accomplish,  Pam  whipped  from 
the  room  back  to  the  little  clean  kitchen. 

And  the  moment  after  that,  her  chances  for  this  time 
present  were  ruthlessly  snatched  away  from  her.  The 
postmaster  awoke  to  find  his  neck  and  his  left  arm  and 
both  his  legs  asleep,  and  something  wrong  with  his  swal- 
lowing apparatus,  and  became  very  busy  all  >  at  once  on 
his  little  bench.  Mrs.  Morland  came  bustling  back  from 
Fussitter's  and  said,  "Good  gracious  i  yon  clock  's  nivver 
right."  Not  that  she  doubted  for  a  moment  that  it  was, 
but  as  a  kind  of  reproof  to  Time  for  having  slipped  away 
from  her  this  afternoon,  and  got  home  so  much  in  ad- 
vance of  her. 

And    Emma    Morland    emerged    from    her    trying-on 


THE  POST-GIRL  311 

room,  and  came  into  the  little  clean  kitchen,  apparently 
searching  for  something,  and  resolutely  keeping  her  gaze 
clear  of  Pam.  Pam  knew  at  once  what  she  wanted.  It 
was  not  anything  that  eye  could  see  or  hands  could  lay 
hold  of;  not  pins  or  petticoats  or  needles  or  darning 
thread.  It  was  counsel  and  advice,  locked  up  so  securely 
in  Pam's  own  delinquent  body,  and  because  of  her  con- 
duct this  afternoon,  the  girl  for  very  shame  and  contri- 
tion dared  not  offer  to  give  it.  She  besought  Emma's 
eye  with  a  pathetic,  supplicating  look  to  be  asked  some 
favor,  however  slight,  by  which  she  might  hope  to  work 
back  her  slow  way  into  Emma's  good  graces,  but  that  eye 
knew  its  business  to  a  hair's-breadth,  and  went  doggedly 
about  it  without  stumbling  into  the  least  collision. 

Last  of  all: 

"Do  you  .  .  .  want  me,  Emma?"  Pam  asked,  in  an  al- 
most inaudible  voice  of  sorrow  and  repentance. 

"Eh?"  said  Emma  sharply,  turning  as  though  she  had 
not  rightly  heard,  and  could  not  imagine  what  possible 
subject  should  lead  Pam  to  address  her.  "Did  ye  say 
owt?" 

"Do  you  want  me,  Emma?"  Pam  begged  again  hum- 
bly. 

She  would  have  liked  to  throw  herself  at  Emma's  feet 
and  pluck  the  hem  of  Emma's  skirt,  and  cling  there  till 
Emma  poured  upon  her  the  benedictory  grace  of  for- 
giveness. 

"What  sewd  ah  want  ye  for  ?"  Emma  asked  incompre- 
hendingly.  "Naw ;  ah  can  do  wi'oot  ye,  thanks." 

No;  she  could  do  without  her,  thanks.  She  who  had 
been  so  glad  to  have  Pam's  help  and  assistance  in  the 
past;  who  had  never  done  a  stitch  on  her  own  account 


312  THE  POST-GIRL 

without  discussing  it  first  with  Pam,  and  whom  Pam  had 
always  loved  to  help,  could  do  without  Pam  now.  Pam 
was  no  longer  necessary  to  her ;  was  no  longer  worthy  to 
render  assistance.  No  longer,  for  very  shame,  would  she  be 
able  to  enter  Emma's  little  trying-on  room,  and  know  the 
happiness  of  helping ;  no  longer  be  able  to  enter  Emma's 
own  heart  and  talk  with  her  as  to  a  sister. 

It  was  all  ended.  The  lights  of  life  were  dropping  out 
one  by  one  like  the  lights  of  Hunmouth  when  you  drive 
away  from  it  along  the  roadway  by  night.  Into  the  great 
darkness  of  shame  she  was  journeying;  it  seemed  all  the 
old  landmarks  were  being  left  behind  her.  In  a  strange 
land  she  would  soon  find  herself.  She  was  on  its  borders 
now — but  a  twist  of  the  road,  and  her  old  life  would  be 
for  ever  lost  to  her. 

And  then  suddenly  a  vivid  flash  of  resolution  shot  out 
and  pierced  her  darkness  with  golden  purpose,  like  a 
shaft  of  sunlight  into  the  dense  heart  of  a  thicket.  Why 
should  she  go  on  suffering  like  this  ?  Why  should  she  go 
on  bearing  her  shameful  burden  of  secrecy  and  silence 
round  all  these  tortuous  paths  and  byways  of  indecision? 
If  she  had  an  aching  tooth,  would  she  tramp  through  the 
wet  and  the  wind  in  ceaseless  rounds,  of  which  the  dentist 
was  the  fixed  centre  ?  This  very  night  she  would  take  the 
letter  up  to  the  Cliff  and  leave  it  at  Dixon's.  Let  him 
think  of  her  as  he  would.  It  was  better  to  bear  honorable 
open  pain  than  ignominious  secret  torture.  The  simplicity 
of  the  resolve  came  upon  her  like  a  revelation.  To  think 
she  could  have  been  beating  about  the  threshold  of  this 
decision  so  long  without  the  courage  to  enter.  But  that 
is  always  the  way.  When  the  pain  of  the  tooth  first  takes 
us  we  submit  to  its  suffering.  It  is  only  when  it  has 


THE  POST-GIRL  313 

broken  our  spirit  that  we  are  driven  on  weak  legs  to  the 
fatal  brass  plate,  and  bemoan  the  many  hours  of  wasted 
anguish  that  might  have  been  saved  had  we  made  use  of 
the  true  light  when  it  first  illuminated  us. 

Alas !  Pam  was  not  at  the  dentist's  yet,  and  there  was 
still  more  suffering  for  her  in  that  aching  molar  of  crime. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

SOON  all  was  abustle  at  the  Post  Office  in  preparation 
for  the  departing  mail.  The  kettle  commenced  to 
throb  upon  the  red  embers  of  the  little  kitchen  fire,  and 
pushing  out  a  blithe  volume  of  steam  through  its  pursed 
lips,  appeared  to  be  whistling  light-heartedly  at  the  im- 
mediate prospect  of  the  cup  that  cheers.  From  the  second 
kitchen  came  the  melodious  clink  of  the  cups  and  saucers 
and  tea-spoons ;  gladsome  tea-table  music,  heard  at  four 
o'clock  on  a  hot  summer's  day,  with  its  queer  cracked 
thirds  and  minor  intervals  and  faulty  diatonics.  James 
Maskill  rattled  up  to  the  Post  Office  door  again,  over  the 
great  round  cobbles,  and  tying  the  reins  up  into  a  loop, 
stimulated  hot  and  dusty  letter-bringers  to  frantic  final 
efforts  with  fierce  cries  that  he  was  on  the  point  of  de- 
parture. 

"Noo  then,  ye  need  n't  gie  ower  runnin'  if  ah  'm  to  tek 
it." 

"Ah  s'd  sit  down,  if  I  was  you,  an'  watch  me  gan." 
"Ay,  theer,  ye  '11  'ave  to  mek  use  o'  yer  legs." 
"Noo,  ah  'm  just  away  an'  all,  so  ye  know." 
Whereupon,  at  Pam's  invitation,  he  retired  to  partake 
of  a  cup  of  smoking  tea  on  the  Post  Office  counter— that 
reappeared  immediately  upon  his  forehead  in  the  form  of 
globules — and  doubling  up  plum-bread  and  butter  by  lay- 
ing it  flat  on  his  great  outstretched  palm  and  closing  his 
hand  upon  it,  slipped  it  down  his  mouth  cornerwise,  as 

3'4 


THE  POST- GIRL  315 

easily  as  posting  a  letter.  Every  now  and  then  he  gave 
his  tea-cup  a  vigorous  stir  to  shake  up  the  sugar  in  it, 
and  darting  to  the  door  of  the  Post  Office,  scanned  the 
street  up  and  down  for  distant  letter-bearers  on  its  hori- 
zon. 

"Noo  then,"  he  cried  out  at  Ding  Jackson,  lurking  on- 
ward from  afar.  "  'Ow  much  longer  div  ye  think  ah  s'll 
wait  for  ye?" 

"Ah  don't  know,  an'  ah  don't  care,"  Dingwall  Jackson 
responded  irreverently. 

"Don't  ye  ?"  shouted  the  postman,  with  sudden  ire. 

"Naw,"  Ding  Jackson  shouted  back  at  him,  going  bet- 
ter. "Ah  've  no  letters." 

"Ay,  bud  ye  '11  know  if  ah  get  'old  on  ye,"  James  Mas- 
kill  cried  threateningly,  shaking  a  doubled  fist  like  a  great 
red  brick  at  him,  and  as  heavy.  "An'  ye  '11  care  too.  Ye 
dommed  saucy  young  divvle." 

"Gie  ower  sweerin',"  cried  Ding  Jackson,  as  loudly  as 
he  could.  He  almost  twisted  his  interior  in  the  effort  to 
publish  the  postman's  offence  throughout  Ullbrig.  "Fey- 
thur,  James  Maskill  's  sweerin'  at  me." 

"Ay,  ye  sewd  try  an'  curb  your  tongue,  Jaames,"  the 
postmaster  counselled  him  as  he  scowled  back  to  his  tea- 
cup. "It 's  a  'asty  member  wi'  all  on  us,  an'  stan's  i'  need 
o'bridlin'." 

"Ah  '11  bridle  'im,"  said  James  morosely,  stirring  up 
the  sugar  again,  this  time  like  the  dregs  of  discord. 
".  .  .  When  ah  get  'im.  An'  ah  know  very  well  where 
ah  can  leet  of  'im"  [alight  on  him]. 

At  other  times  this  wicked  conduct  of  James's  would 
have  grieved  and  disappointed  Pam,  particularly  in  the 
face  of  his  recent  struggles  and  improvements,  but  to-day 


3i6  THE  POST-GIRL 

she  felt  no  right  to  be  grieved.  Indeed,  this  sin  seemed 
so  inconsiderable  by  the  side  of  her  own  that  she  envied 
the  postman  his  comparative  state  of  sinlessness.  To  call 
somebody  a  "devil"  (which  Ding  Jackson  undoubtedly 
was,  at  any  time  that  you  used  the  appellation  to  him ; 
morning,  noon,  or  night),  what  was  that?  But  to  steal 
something  from  somebody  who  'd  been  your  best  friend. 
To  be  a  thief.  She  knew  by  her  sorrows  what  that  was. 
And  James  Maskill  had  been  reproved  and  shamed  and 
corrected  for  the  one,  while  she,  for  the  other— that 
could  have  sent  her  to  prison  and  shamed  her  before  Ull- 
brig  for  ever — she  was  here,  acting  the  saintly  hypocrite. 

Oh,  no!  Whatever  James  Maskill  did  now  she  could 
never  reprove  him.  The  very  worst  that  his  temper 
could  do  would  always  be  above  that  level  to  which, 
through  her  sheer  sinful  tendency,  she  had  sunk.  James 
would  never  steal.  James  would  never  be  a  thief.  From 
that  hour  forth  she  looked  up  to  James  Maskill  with  a 
new-born  reverence  and  respect,  as  to  one  whose  life  was 
pure  and  hallowed. 

"Thank  ye,"  said  the  hallowed  one,  thrusting  the  cup 
and  saucer  and  plate  through  the  kitchen  door,  and  hold- 
ing them  there  until  he  should  feel  himself  relieved  of 
them. 

"You  're  very  welcome,  James,"  Pam  answered  him,  in 
the  softest  voice  that  was  left  to  her.  Even  her  voice,  it 
seemed,  was  becoming  hard  and  sinful  and  metallic  in 
these  days,  to  match  her  soul.  "Will  you  have  any 
more?"  ' 

"No,  ah  s'll  'a  my  tea  when  ah  get  back,"  the  hallowed 
one  responded ;  and  in  a  lower  tone,  according  to  custom : 
"Is  there  owt  'at  ah  can  do  for  ye  o'  my  way?" 


THE  POST-GIRL  317 

Dear,  faithful,  honest,  good-hearted  fellow !  How  he 
loved  her,  Pam  told  herself  bitterly.  How  he  trusted  her, 
vile  character  that  she  was.  How  his  goodness  ought  to 
stimulate  and  strengthen  her  own,  and  draw  her  back,  if 
so  might  be,  to  the  old  paths  she  had  trodden  once. 

"No,  thank  you,  James,"  she  said  after  a  pause— in 
which  James  only  imagined  she  was  trying  to  think  of 
something. 

"Not  to-night?"  said  the  hallowed  one. 

"Not  to-night  .  .  .  thank  you,"  Pam  told  him. 

If  a  kiss  would  have  been  any  good  to  him  .  .  .  and 
he  'd  asked  for  it,  he  would  have  got  it  then.  Poor 
James !  Lost  a  kiss  because  he  never  dreamed  of  think- 
ing it  would  be  there,  or  asking  on  the  off  chance. 

"Ah  'm  still  .  .  .  tryin'  my  best,"  he  assured  Pam, 
round  the  door-post.  "Ah  'm  not  same  man  ah  was,  bud 
that  d  .  .  .  Dingwall,  ah  mean,  gets  better  o'  me  yet. 
Ah  know  ah  s'll  not  be  right  while  ah  've  fetched  'im  a 
bat  across  'is  lugs.  Nor  'e  won't,  saucy  young  .  .  .  sod. 
Bud  ah  Ve  not  gidden  up  tryin'." 

He  had  not  given  up  trying.  And  she — was  she  try- 
ing? 

Oh,  James,  James,  James!  After  many  days  you  are 
bringing  back  her  soul's  bread  to  her.  Pray  that  she  feed 
upon  it  and  be  strong.  She  needs  it. 

"Good-neet,"  said  James. 

"Good-night,  James,"  said  Pam. 

The  postman  raised  his  voice. 

"Good-neet,  Emma." 

"Good-neet,  Jaames  Maskill,"  Emma  responded. 

"Good-neet,  Missis  Morland." 

"Good-neet,  Jim  lad." 


318  THE  POST-GIRL 

"Good-neet,  agen,"  James  said  to  the  postmaster. 

"Neet,  James.  Ye  '11  'ev  another  nice  jonney."  the 
postmaster  told  him. 

"Ay,  neet  's  about  best  part  o'  day,  noo,"  James  re- 
sponded. 

He  took  up  the  bag,  and  lingering,  cast  one  extra 
"Good-neet"  over  his  shoulder  towards  the  door-post  once 
more,  in  his  second  and  softer  voice.  It  did  n't  seem  for 
anybody  in  particular,  but  more  as  though  he  had  it  to 
spare,  and  might  as  well  leave  it  at  the  Post  Office  as 
anywhere.  Pam's  voice,  however,  registered  acceptance 
of  it  from  within,  with  the  grateful  inflection  for  a  very 
welcome  gift. 

"Ay,  good-neet,"  said  the  postman,  giving  her  another 
forthwith ;  and  after  hesitating  on  the  impulse  of  a  third, 
hardened  his  mouth,  swung  the  bag  off  the  counter  by  its 
narrow  neck,  lunged  out  into  the  lurid  sunlight,  pulled 
the  cart  down  to  meet  him,  sprang  into  his  place,  said 
"Gee"  and  "Kt,"  and  was  round  the  brewer's  corner  in  a 
twinkling,  leaving  golden  clouds  behind  him. 

And  as  soon  as  tea  was  over  and  the  things  were 
cleared,  and  the  house  commenced  to  slip  into  its  peace- 
ful evening  mood,  she  set  her  plans  in  motion  for  the  car- 
rying out  of  her  resolve.  Viewing  the  recent  discredit 
into  which  her  washing  had  fallen  with  Miss  Morland,  it 
required  all  her  nerve  to  brace  herself  for  a  visit  of  this 
nature  to  the  bright  bedroom  overlooking  the  garden ; 
but  stealing  a  moment  when  Emma  was  absent,  she  did 
it,  changed  her  light  dress  for  a  darker  of  navy  blue,  and 
descended,  prepared  to  receive  all  Emma's  scorn  now 
that  it  could  no  longer  deter  her  from  her  intention.  But 
Emma  was  nowhere  visible  when  she  reached  ground- 


THE  POST-GIRL  319 

floor  again;  her  accumulated  reserves  of  meekness  and 
charity  had  been  vainly  stored.  And  now  her  first  object 
was  to  secure  the  letter.  She  reconnoitred  the  rooms 
once  more,  with  the  end  that  she  might  possess  herself  of 
it,  and  hold  it  in  readiness  for  the  first  suitable  moment 
that  might  offer  her  a  chance  of  departure  without  being 
seen.  Such  departure  would  not  be  yet,  of  course.  It 
would  not  be  till  the  dusk  was  well  fallen,  and  the  moon 
on  the  rise.  Until  that  time  there  was  always  the  fear  of 
coming  into  collision  with  the  Spawer  about  Dixon's 
farmstead.  Above  all,  she  must  avoid  that.  And  mean- 
while, the  letter  must  be  in  her  keeping  against  all  chance 
that  the  one  moment  most  favorable  to  departure  in  all 
other  respects  should  be  the  least  favorable  for  the  pro- 
curement of  the  letter  itself. 

To  her  consternation  and  dismay,  she  found  that  the 
parlor,  though  she  had  imagined  it  to  be  unoccupied  when 
she  listened  outside  the  door,  was  held  in  the  hands  of 
the  schoolmaster.  He  was  seated,  reading  deeply  at  the 
round  table,  with  his  elbows  on  the  edge  and  his  hands 
over  his  ears,  when  she  wavered  upon  the  threshold. 
This  first  frustration  cast  a  terrible  shadow  over  her. 
She  did  not  know  where  to  go  to  keep  vigil.  If  she  dal- 
lied too  openly  about  the  house,  there  was  ever  the  dread 
that  it  might  involve  her  awkwardly  with  one  member  or 
other,  and  rob  her  of  her  chance  a  second  time,  just  at 
the  very  moment  that  the  schoolmaster  should  leave  the 
coast  clear.  Apparently  he  had  not  heard  her  push  the 
half -open  door  and  stop  dead  upon  the  outer  mat,  for  he 
had  never  raised  his  head.  Dejected  and  anxious,  she 
stole  back  to  the  little  kitchen  and  twisted  her  knuckles 
by  the  window,  watching  the  slowly  deepening  sky— so 


320  THE  POST-GIRL 

reflective  of  her  own  sinking  gloom.  From  here  the  post- 
master's approaching  steps  drove  her  into  the  second 
kitchen.  From  the  second  kitchen  the  sound  of  Emma 
Morland,  humming  a  hymn-tune  severely  through  her 
tightened  lips,  and  advancing  by  the  passage  door,  drove 
her  back  again,  and— as  Emma  still  pushed  her  advance 
—up  the  corkscrew  staircase  for  the  second  time  this 
night. 

"Where  's  Pam?"  Miss  Morland  inquired  acutely  of 
the  postmaster,  when  she  entered— not  that  she  was  in 
active  pursuit  or  need  of  her,  but  that  the  girl's  absences 
now  were  always  a  source  of  suspicious  inquiry  and  spec- 
ulation. 

"En't  ye  seed  'er?"  the  postmaster  asked  innocently. 
"She  's  nobbut  just  this  moment  come  oot  o'  kitchen  an' 
ganned  upstairs." 

"Ay,  to  wash  'ersen,  ah  s'd  think,"  Miss  Morland  re- 
flected shrewdly  to  herself.  "Ah  'd  gie  seummut  to 
know  what  lass  's  after." 

At  that  moment,  if  it  could  have  been  revealed  to  her, 
the  lass  was  after  listening  at  the  top  of  the  staircase  with 
a  twisted  ear  to  their  solicitudes  concerning  her  where- 
abouts. Once  upon  a  time,  she  told  herself  while  she  did 
it,  she  would  never  have  listened  to  anything  that  any- 
body said,  whether  she  had  been  the  subject  of  it  or  not. 
But  now,  listening  seemed  part  of  her  natural  defence; 
she  listened  with  no  interest  in  the  thing  heard,  except 
only  as  a  means  for  her  own  intelligence  and  safety.  At 
the  first  sound  of  words  her  suspicious  ear  was  up  like 
a  cat's  at  the  chattering  of  birds. 

From  her  place  at  the  head  of  the  twisted  stairs  she 
was  driven  into  her  bedroom  once  more  by  Mrs.  Mor- 


THE  POST-GIRL  321 

land.  Then,  when  calm  had  been  restored  to  the  recently 
ruffled  atmosphere  of  the  post  house,  and  it  was  possible 
to  probe  by  ear  to  the  uttermost  corners  of  it,  she  slipped 
out  a  cautious  head,  chose  her  moment,  and  stole  down  by 
the  Sunday  staircase.  Very  gently  she  pressed  upon  the 
parlor  door  with  her  cushioned  fingers  .  .  .  very  gently 
.  .  .  gently,  gently,  just  so  that  she  .  .  .  gently  .  .  . 
gently  .  .  .  could  catch  a  glimpse. 

Ah! 

The  treacherous  door  had  cracked,  all  at  once,  like  a 
walnut-shell  under  her  boot-heel.  She  was  halfway  up 
the  stairs  again  in  a  trice;  holding  her  palpitating  heart 
and  listening  terribly  over  the  bannisters  for  the  sounds 
that  should  proclaim  discovery  of  her  attempt.  But  none 
came.  Baffled,  goaded  with  desire,  half-crying  with  fear 
of  her  enterprise's  failure,  and  yet  unable  to  cry  because 
she  lacked  the  tears  to  cry  with,  being  only  able  to  pull 
painful  faces;  desperate  to  achieve  her  purpose  and  ter- 
rified with  her  own  desperation,  she  was  up  and  down  the 
staircase  after  this  a  dozen  times ;  back  into  her  bedroom, 
listening  at  the  head  of  the  corkscrew  stairs;  holding  her 
ear  to  every  point  of  the  compass.  But  never  dared  she 
essay  entrance  of  the  parlor.  That  door,  just  ajar  on  its 
hinges,  held  her  more  effectually  at  bay  than  had  it  been 
bolted  with  great  bolts  and  locked  and  barred.  Dusky 
night  descended,  the  time  was  getting  ripe  for  her  purpose 
.  .  .  and  still  she  lacked  the  letter. 

Then  the  greater  terror  out-terrorised  the  lesser.  Fear 
of  what  the  consequences  might  be  should  she  not  achieve 
her  purpose  to-night  drove  her  downstairs  for  the  last 
time,  and  into  the  parlor.  With  an  air  of  reckless  inno- 
cence that  pretends  it  has  nothing  to  be  afraid  or 

21 


322  THE  POST-GIRL 

ashamed  of,  she  pulled  the  door  wide  and  strode  into  the 
room.  In  the  simulation  of  guiltlessness  her  bearing  for 
the  moment  was  almost  defiant,  as  though  she  were 
braced  for  going  into  some  hated  presence.  And  indeed, 
for  all  the  assuring  silence  of  the  parlor,  she  advanced 
with  the  full  expectation  of  seeing  the  schoolmaster's  fig- 
ure looming  forth  from  the  table,  with  his  hands  to  his 
ears  and  his  back  to  her,  as  he  had  been  on  her  first  ar- 
rival. But  no  black  shadow  interposed  itself  between  her 
and  the  window;  the  chair  was  empty;  the  room  was 
void.  Gone  all  this  while.  .  .  .  And  she  in  her  terror 
had  been  letting  the  precious  moments  slip  through  her 
fingers  like  water.  Her  heart,  in  spite  of  the  misery  of 
her  lost  opportunities,  gave  a  great  bound  of  exultation 
when  it  found  the  way  of  its  purpose  clear. 

She  sprang  across  the  room  and  laid  hold  of  the  desk. 
The  pleasure  of  feeling  it  in  her  possession  again  after 
all  her  dividing  anguish;  this  union  of  purpose  with  op- 
portunity ;  this  path  unto  righteousness— were  more  glor- 
ious than  untold  riches.  Tremulously  she  deposed  the 
china  shepherdess,  and  opening  the  desk  thrust  in  her 
feverish  fingers. 

And  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  her  heart  seemed  to  stand 
still.  A  great  sinking,  swaying  sickness  seized  her. 

The  letter  was  not  there. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

letter  was  not  there. 

Like  a  wild  animal  bereft  of  its  young,  when  the 
first  shock  of  discovery  had  had  its  way  with  her,  she  set 
herself  with  both  hands  to  rummage  the  contents  of  the 
desk,  as  though  sheer  frenzy  of  desperation  alone  could 
restore  to  her  that  which  was  lost.  Scarcely  even  did  she 
regard  the  objects  that  her  delving  brought  to  the  surface, 
but  dug  and  tore  at  them  all  with  a  blind,  consuming 
energy  that  revealed  the  unreasoning  horror  of  her  mind ; 
turning  and  returning  and  overturning ;  now  above,  now 
below ;  selecting  each  thing  seemingly  with  the  prefixed 
idea  to  reject. 

It  was  not  there.  The  letter  that  all  her  life  and  honor 
hung  upon,  that  she  had  thought  to  place  there  with  her 
own  hands,  was  not  there.  It  was  gone.  There  did  not 
remain  a  trace  of  it.  On  the  floor,  upon  her  hand  and 
knees,  she  sought  distractedly,  stroking  the  carpet  with 
passionate  solicitude  to  deliver  her  the  letter  that  was  not 
hers — as  though  it  were  a  great,  rough-coated  beast  that 
she  was  coaxing. 

And  there,  on  her  hands  and  knees,  the  schoolmaster 
came  upon  her.  Through  the  thick  walls  of  her  engross- 
ment she  never  heard  him;  care  she  had  thrown  to  the 
winds. 

Still  groping  and  coaxing,  and  peering  over  the  floor  in 
the  fast  gathering  dusk,  she  saw  for  the  first  time  the 

323 


324  THE  POST- GIRL 

shadow  that  watched  her.  It  said  no  word  at  the  moment 
of  her  rising.  Slowly  and  tremblingly  she  rose  upward, 
like  a  faint  exhalation,  a  phantom.  Had  she  continued 
her  vaporous  ascent  through  the  ceiling,  and  through  the 
bedroom  ceiling  above  that,  and  through  the  red-tiled 
roof,  and  forth  into  the  great  eternity  of  dissolution  and 
nothingness,  it  would  scarcely  have  been  out  of  keeping 
with  the  strange  slow  spirituality  of  her  rising.  All  the 
passionate  heat  of  her  search  cooled  before  that  presence  ; 
her  body,  that  had  been  so  assiduous  in  its  enterprise, 
froze  suddenly  to  ice;  the  very  life  seemed  to  have  been 
smitten  out  of  her,  and  her  rising  but  the  last  muscular 
relaxation  of  a  body  from  which  the  soul  had  fled. 

"Are  you  .  .  .  looking  for  something?"  the  shadow 
asked  her,  after  a  terrible  moment's  silence,  when  the 
girl's  guilty  heart  seemed  trying  to  cry  aloud  and  betray 
her. 

It  was  the  old  schoolmaster's  voice  that  uttered  the 
question;  the  tight,  hoarse  whisper  that  seemed  to 
strangle  his  throat  in  the  utterance  like  a  drawn  cord. 
And  it  was  the  old  schoolmaster's  figure  that  waited  upon 
her  answer;  the  remorseless,  condemnatory  figure  with 
its  hands  to  its  collar,  that  always,  whatever  she  did, 
threw  her  in  the  wrong.  All  their  intervening  relations 
seemed  cut  out  and  done  away  with.  They  were  back 
again,  splicing  their  lives  at  the  point  where  these  had 
broken  off  on  that  memorable  night  in  the  kitchen.  He 
was  above  her  once  more,  on  the  great  high  judgment 
seat,  and  she  .  .  .  down  here — a  poor,  frail,  inconse- 
quential sinner— struggled  and  wrestled  in  the  bondage 
of  silence  before  him. 

"I?"     She  spoke  in  an  unsteady  voice,  all  blown  to 


THE  POST-GIRL  325 

pieces  with  short  breaths,  as  though  she  had  been  running 
fast  and  far.  "No,  no !  Only  something  that  I  ...  that 
I  ...  I  thought  I  'd  dropped.  Nothing  at  all  ... 
thank  you.  It  does  n't  matter." 

She  wanted  to  pass  him  quickly  on  the  strength  of  that 
denial — a  lie  on  the  face  of  itself — and  get  away  some- 
where, to  her  bedroom  again,  before  he  could  question  her 
further;  but  he  stood  there  without  moving,  as  he  had 
stood  in  the  moonlight,  and  she  dared  not  advance.  She 
had  the  fear  within  her  that  he  might  yield  her  no  place. 

"You  .  .  .  will  not  find  it  on  the  floor,"  he  told  her. 

"I  don't  .  .  .  know  what  you  mean,"  she  found 
strength  to  say — but  only  just. 

"The  letter,"  he  answered.  "You  are  looking  for  a 
letter." 

In  dead  silence,  like  an  executioner's  axe,  the  charge 
fell,  and  seemed  to  sever  her  anguished  head  of  evasion 
at  one  sharp  blow  from  its  trembling  trunk.  She  had  no 
power  for  struggling  now;  her  life  of  tortured  anticipa- 
tion and  mental  activity  was  at  an  end.  It  was  only  a 
poor,  soulless,  quivering  girl's  body  that  the  schoolmaster 
had  in  front  of  him.  He  might  bend  and  bruise  it  as  he 
listed ;  it  should  show  him  no  resistance. 

"It  was  a  letter  you  were  looking  for,"  he  taxed  her 
again,  his  voice  gaining  severity,  it  seemed,  from  her  ad- 
missive silence,  as  though  he  meant  forcing  her  to  confess 
with  her  lips  what  she  had  hoped  to  let  her  silence  say 
for  her. 

"...  Have  you  .  .  .  got  it?"  she  inquired,  in  a  dry, 
empty  whisper. 

Had  she  spoken  the  words  with  a  hollow  reed  under 
her  lips  the  tone  would  have  been  no  more  empty. 


326  THE  POST-GIRL 

"It  is  safe,"  he  said. 

And  something  in  the  malicious  utterance,  something 
significant  of  exultation  for  a  victory  unfairly  come  by, 
revealed  to  the  girl  in  a  flash,  when,  and  by  what  abomi- 
nable means,  it  had  come  into  the  man's  possession. 

"You  took  it,"  she  cried  at  him,  flinging  the  accusation 
into  his  face  as  though  it  were  a  glove  from  the  hand  of 
outraged  honor.  ."You  stole  it  out  of  my  desk !"  With 
all  the  rapid  process  of  moral  despoliation  that  had  been 
at  work  upon  her  during  these  latter  days,  and  with  all 
the  resultant  complaisance  for  crime,  the  old  indignation 
rose  up  strong  in  her  against  the  idea  of  a  mean,  petty 
theft  like  this.  It  seemed  she  might  never  have  sinned  or 
known  sin  herself,  so  clear  and  righteous  was  her  moral 
eye  become  of  a  sudden.  "You  thief !"  she  threw  at  the 
man.  "Coward  and  thief !" 

He  made  no  attempt  to  resent  or  defend  himself  against 
these  puny  javelins  of  her  anger.  Possession  of  the  let- 
ter was  so  impregnable  a  position  that  he  could  afford  to 
let  her  expend  her  ammunition  fruitlessly  against  the 
walls  of  his  silence. 

"And  if  I  did  take  it?"  he  asked  her  merely,  in  tones  of 
gathering  assurance. 

"It  was  not  yours  to  take,"  she  panted  at  him.  "It  does 
not  belong  to  you.  Give  it  me  back.  You  have  no  right 
to  it." 

"It  belongs  to  neither  of  us,"  he  said,  yet  without 
anger.  With  such  a  power  as  this  letter  in  his  pocket 
gave  him,  he  had  no  need  of  anger.  And  of  justification 
he  sought  none.  "My  right  is  as  much  as  yours  .  .  .  and 
I  am  prepared  to  stand  by  it.  Call  me  a  thief  if  you  like ; 
mere  names  won't  hurt  me  .  .  .  your  own  harsh  treat- 


THE  POST-GIRL  327 

ment  has  hardened  me  too  much  for  that.  We  are  both 
of  us  thieves." 

"...  I  was  going  to  take  it  back  to-night  .  .  ."  the  girl 
protested,  part  in  asseveration  of  her  innocence,  part  in 
supplication  that  he  should  restore  her  the  letter. 

"Perhaps  you  were,"  he  said,  with  a  callous  indiffer- 
ence to  her  intentions  that  boded  ill  for  his  own.  Ap- 
parently he  was  little  concerned  with  the  girl's  atonement 
or  questions  of  restitution.  "But  I  have  something  .  .  . 
to  say  to  you  first.  We  cannot  talk  here.  Put  on  your 
hat  ...  we  will  go  outside." 

His  assumption  of  authority  and  dominion  roused  the 
last  red  cinders  of  the  girl's  independence.  Now  that  her 
back  was  to  the  wall  and  further  retreat  was  impossible, 
the  energy,  hitherto  dribbling  away  in  futile  skirmishes, 
accumulated  itself  in  frontal  activity.  She  was  shamed 
— bitterly,  horribly  shamed — but  even  shame  has  its  pride. 

"Give 'me  the  letter  .  .  ."  she  said  doggedly,  and  held 
out  her  hand. 

"Put  on  your  hat  .  .  ."  he  told  her.  "We  will  talk 
about  that  outside." 

"I  will  not  go  with  you.  Give  me  the  letter  first.  If 
you  give  me  the  letter  I  will  go." 

"You  shall  have  the  letter  back  ...  in  good  time.  Not 
now.  If  you  speak  so  loudly  they  will  hear  us.  Put  on 
your  hat." 

"I  will  not  put  on  my  hat." 

"...  I  think  you  will." 

"When  will  you  give  me  back  the  letter  ?" 

"When  ...  we  have  come  to  an  understanding." 

The  word  "understanding"  tolled  out  across  the  dreary 
wastes  of  her  consciousness  like  a  death-bell. 


328  THE  POST- GIRL 

"...  Will  you  give  it  me  to-night?" 

"We  can  discuss  that." 

"Give  it  me  now  .  .  .  and  I  will  go  with  you." 

"No ;  I  cannot  give  it  you  now.  You  have  had  your 
way  ...  in  other  things.  I  must  have  mine,  for  once, 
in  this.  Put  on  your  hat." 

She  would  have  gone  on  her  knees  to  anyone  else  in 
the  world  that  should  have  obtained  this  dominion  over 
her,  but  before  this  man,  no.  To  beg  of  him,  her  shame 
was  ashamed.  Knowing  what  he  had  been  wanting  of 
her  all  these  months — what  he  vas  wanting  of  her  now 
— she  dared  not  plead  for  a  single  concession ;  dared  not 
put  herself  under  the  yoke  of  one  small  favor.  Doubly 
she  was  at  a  disadvantage  before  him.  All  her  wiles  of 
womanhood ;  all  her  tears ;  all  her  soft  persuasions ;  her 
clasping  of  hands;  her  dove-like  wooing  with  the  voice 
...  all  that  dear  pedlar's  basket  of  feminine  graces  to 
win  the  hearts  and  minds  of  man  must  be  left  undis- 
played.  To  this  man,  of  all  men  on  earth,  she  must  not 
plead. 

"If  I  will  not  put  on  my  hat?"  she  said. 

She  dared  not  bind  herself  in  direct  negation  to  the 
refusal,  but  she  suggested  the  act — drawing  pride  for  it 
indirectly— with  the  twofold  intention  of  expressing-  a 
contemplated  resolve  she  was  far  from  feeling,  and  of 
arriving  at  some  knowledge  of  the  degree  to  which  the 
man  was  prepared  to  push  his  ill-gotten  power. 

"But  you  will,"  he  said. 

There  was  something  so  black  about  the  insinuation — 
as  though  he  himself  were  anxious  to  save  her  the  sight 
of  what  might  be  in  store  for  her  if  she  persisted — that 
she  dared  hazard  no  second  contingency.  They  remained 


THE  POST-GIRL  329 

for  a  second  or  two  in  silence,  and  the  slow  melting  of  her 
obstinacy  into  consent  was  as  palpable  during  these  mo- 
ments as  the  melting  away  of  a  fragment  of  ice  on  a 
fishmonger's  slab.  No  other  word  passed  between  them 
then.  Very  quietly  the  schoolmaster  opened  the  door  and 
stood  by  the  wall  while  -the  girl  slid  by  him,  cowed  and 
trembling. 

The  postmaster,  sitting  on  the  high  Governmental  stool 
in  the  Post  Office,  with  his  back  to  the  window  and  his 
newspaper  held  up  above  his  head  to  catch  the  last  red 
reflection  from  the  darkening  sky,  staring  upward  at  the 
crowded  firmament  of  print  through  his  great  glasses  as 
though  he  were  star-gazing,  heard  the  front  door  close, 
and  looking  over  the  ribbed  glass  screen  into  the  roadway, 
saw  Pam  and  the  schoolmaster  pass  together  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  brewer's  corner. 

"Emma,"  said  he,  putting  his  head  in  at  Miss  Mor- 
land's  door  next  moment;  and  more  urgently  still,  not 
discerning  her  there  at  first  in  the  dusk:  "Emma  lass, 
are  ye  theer  ?" 

"Ay,  ah  seed  'em,"  said  the  severe  voice  of  his  daugh- 
ter. "Div  ye  want  lamp  noo  ?" 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

/TAHAT  same  night  the  Ullbrig  chimes  were  as  clear  to 
J.  hear  at  Cliff  Wrangham  as  though  they  'd  rung  in 
Dixon's  stackgarth,  and  Dixon  shook  his  head. 

"Yon  's  a  bad  sound,"  said  he  dubiously.  "Ah  'm 
jealous  we  s'll  be  gettin'  some  rain  before  morn." 

And  while  all  Ullbrig  slept  (save  two),  and  all  Cliff 
Wrangham  (save  one),  a  great,  black,  umbrella-shaped 
cloud  pushed  up  its  head  into  the  sky  above  where  the 
sun  had  sunk,  like  a  mammoth  mushroom.  Soon  there 
were  no  stars  left  behind  Ullbrig  church  for  the  tower  to 
show  against;  half  the  sky  was  black  as  ink  and  the 
mushroom  still  growing.  Out  of  the  advancing  darkness 
came  wafts  of  cool,  wet  wind  that  shook  the  sleeping  win- 
dows and  casements  gently,  as  though  to  awaken  them 
to  preparation,  and  bid  them :  "Be  ready— we  are  com- 
ing." And  almost  while  their  breath  was  whispering  the 
warning,  the  first  rain  drop  spat  sideways  against  the 
Spawer's  window,  and  after  that  the  second  and  a  third 
and  a  fourth.  And  thenceforward,  through  the  hours  till 
daybreak — that  never  broke  at  all — the  silence  seethed 
with  the  steadfast  downpouring  of  rain. 

All  over  the  country-side  this  night  there  would  be 
white  faces  peering  out  through  the  streaming  wet  win- 
dows, for  your  farmer  is  a  light  sleeper  where  his  crops 
are  at  stake ;  and  men's  low,  calamitous  voices  heard  dis- 
cussing the  swift  change  in  their  prospects ;  and  stocking- 

330 


THE  POST-GIRL  331 

feet  stirring  muffled  about  boarded  floors ;  and  bedsteads 
creaking  as  occupants  sit  up  in  them,  and  roll  out  with 
sudden-roused  anxiety  or  throw  themselves  flat  again  in 
the  despondency  that  knows  too  well  to  need  any  ocular 
confirmation  of  its  fears ;  and  the  sounds  of  masters,  call- 
ing urgently  upon  men  by  name  in  the  great  attic  above, 
to  inquire  whether  this,  that,  or  the  other  had  been  safely 
done  last  night  before  turning  in. 

For  three  days  the  rain  fell,  almost  without  intermis- 
sion. At  times,  for  variation,  great  big-bellied  clouds  of 
white  mist  rolled  over  the  land  from  the  sea,  and  hid  it, 
and  rolled  away  again.  They  heard  the  booming  of  the 
minute-gun  from  Farnborough,  and  the  hoot  of  passing 
steamers.  More  than  once,  during  these  three  days,  the 
Spawer  extended  his  excursions — with  fitful  energy  of 
action — right  beyond  the  confines  of  Dixon's  farm,  and 
showed  a  set  face  of  purpose  towards  Ullbrig.  But  it 
was  all  mere  moonshine.  The  thought  of  his  advent  in 
Ullbrig  village,  with  his  streaming  mackintosh  and  soak- 
ing cap  and  be-muddied  boots,  deterred  him  from  his 
folly  in  time.  And  whenever  he  turned  back  it  was  al- 
ways with  a  certain  consolatory  pious  pain  of  renuncia- 
tion, as  though  he  had  just  got  the  better  of  a  great  temp- 
tation, and  had  gained  a  victory  instead  of  losing  one. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

EARLY  on  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day,  which  was 
a  Saturday,  Barclay  was  sighted  in  his  spring  cart, 
driving  down  to  Ullbrig  to  catch  Tankard's  'bus ;  the  farm 
lad  sat  by  his  side  to  hold  up  the  great  gig  umbrella,  with 
cylindrical  slashes  in  its  cover,  through  which  a  cow  could 
have  jumped,  and  two  or  three  of  its  complete  ribs  show- 
ing. Dixon,  standing  at  the  pump  in  his  white  water- 
proof and  leggings,  his  corn-sack  headgear,  and  his  six- 
penny telescope,  as  though  he  'd  been  a  skipper,  and  Bar- 
clay's cart  (with  miniature  waves  of  water  curling  off  at 
its  wheels)  an  apparently  friendly  craft,  hailed  him  as 
the  farm  lad  consigned  to  his  master  the  care  of  the  um- 
brella, and  clambered  down  to  throw  open  the  lane  gate. 

"Noo  then." 

"Noo  then,"  said  Barclay  in  turn,  showing  his  face, 
and  waving  the  reins  at  him  with  the  right  hand. 

"Ye  're  not  cuttin'  cwt  to-day,  it  seems?"  Dixon  in- 
quired jocularly. 

"Nay,  ah  'm  waitin'  while  it  ripens  a  bit.  Ah  thought 
ye  'd  'a  been  agate  leadin'  yours  by  noo." 

"Ay,"  said  Dixon,  ".  .  .  'appen  we  may  if  rain  dizz  n't 
lift.  We  mud  as  well  'ave  it  damp  as  dry,  ah  think.  'Ow 
diz  it  suit  ye  noo,  this  tee-tawtal  weather  ?" 

"Nay,  it  dizz  n't  fall  t'  be  no  wuss  nor  it  is.  That  's 
'ow  it  suits  me,"  Barclay  responded.  "It  's  no  use  stayin' 
i'  'oose,  watchin'  crops  waste.  Ah  'm  away  to  Oom- 
mujth." 

33» 


THE  POST-GIRL  333 

"To  buy  a  bit  o'  band,  ah  's  think?"  Dixon  hazarded, 
with  an  internal  twinkle. 

"Ay,  a  bit  o'  band  :11  not  come  amiss  i'  'arvest  time." 

"Don't  loss  it  o'  yer  way  back,  onny  road,"  Dixon 
charged  him.  "Shall  ye  come  wi'  Tankard?" 

"Ay,"  said  Barclay  oracularly.  "Gen  ah  don't  come 
later,  ah  shall." 

.  .  .  And  drove  away  in  the  sloppy  channel  of  the 
lane,  with  the  clash  of  the  gate  behind  him  for  farewell. 

The  farm  lad,  returning  after  a  while  in  sole  charge  of 
the  cart,  with  the  umbrella  totally  inverted  over  him, 
using  one  of  its  rents  as  a  window,  held  further  parley 
with  Dixon  at  close  quarters  by  the  same  gate — that  Dixon 
opened  for  him  to  save  a  dismount — concerning  his  mas- 
ter's departure,  and  the  world  in  general.  The  conversa- 
tion brightened  Dixon's  face  as  it  proceeded,  and  sent  him 
back  to  the  house  with  a  sparkle  in  his  eye,  as  though  he  'd 
been  asked  to  pronounce  judgment  on  a  glass  of  XXX, 
and  could  say  "Proper  stuff  this !"  with  all  his  heart. 

"Noo,  ah  've  gotten  to  larn  seummut  ti  morn,  onny 
road,"  he  announced  to  the  household  assembled  in  the 
big  kitchen,  from  whose  window  the  stack  of  faces  had 
been  interestedly  observant  of  this  second  conversation. 
And  in  response  to  the  very  general  inquiry :  "What  'a  ye 
larnt,  then?"  answered  with  another:  "What  div  ye 
think?" 

"What  sewd  we  think,  an'  all?"  Miss  Bates  demanded 
rebelliously.  "Folks  like  me  'as  no  time  to  think." 

"Nay,  they  'd  do  better  if  they  did,"  Dixon  assented, 
with  his  imperturbable  geniality. 

"Ay,  or  they  'd  do  less,  'appen,"  Miss  Bates  snapped 
at  him. 


334  THE  POST- GIRL 

"Ah  don't  know  i'  what  way,"  Dixon  decided  amiably. 
"Noo,  div  ye  gie  it  up?  Ah  bet  ye  weean't  guess,  onny  on 

ye." 

"Sun  's  shinin'  i'  Oolbrig,  'appen,"  Arny  suggested. 

"Feythur  Mostyn  's  gannin'  to  slart  [daub]  a  sup  o' 
paint  ower  t'  front  of  'is  'oose,"  Jeff  said. 

"Nay,  ye  '11  none  on  ye  get  gain  [near]  'and  it,"  Dixon 
said,  not  desiring,  however,  to  give  them  too  much  rope, 
lest  they  might.  "It  's  a  weddin'." 

"Ay,  an'  ah  know  'oo's  it  is !"  Miss  Bates  cried,  emerg- 
ing suddenly  at  the  open  door  of  her  rebellious  silence, 
to  demonstrate  the  superiority  of  her  intelligence,  and 
shaking  it  at  him  as  though  it  were  a  broom.  "It  's 
Pam's,  an'  she  's  gannin'  to  marry  schoolmester." 

"Ay,  that  's  right  enough,"  Dixon  said,  with  the  per- 
ceptible reluctance  of  admission  that  would  have  wished 
the  news— or  Miss  Bates'  guess— to  have  been  otherwise, 
particularly  in  view  of  her  triumphant :  "Ah  knowed  very 
well." 

"  'Oo  telt  ye  she  was,  though?"  Jeff  demanded  of  his 
father,  with  Thomasine  unbelief. 

"Barclay  lad,  just  noo." 

"An'  where  did  'e  get  it  fro'?" 

"Nay,  'e  'd  gotten  it  off  too  well  for  me  to  ask  'im  owt 
o'  that.  'E  telt  me  it  wor  ower  village  'at  schoolmester 
'ad  asked  Pam  to  'ave  'im,  an'  she  'd  ta'en  'im.  Ah  'm 
not  sure  schoolmester  'issen  'ad  n't  telt  a  goodish  few." 

"Ay,  'e  '11  want  to  tell  'em  an'  all,"  Miss  Bates  agreed 
gustily.  "  'E  's  been  after  'er  long  enough.  Mah  wod ! 
Ah  'd  'a  seed  'er  somewhere  before  ah  'd  'a  looked  at  'er 
twice,  all  time  she  's  been  snuffin'  'er  nose  at  me.  They 
want  giein'  marriage,  both  on  'em.  Ah  sewd  'a  'ad  to  be 


THE  POST-GIRL  335 

asked  a  good  few  times  before  ah  'd  tek  up  wi'  a  man 
same  as  yon — old  enough  to  be  my  feythur,  very  nigh." 

"Ay,  it  teks  all  sorts  to  mek  a  wuld,"  Dixon  pro- 
nounced drily.  "We  s'll  see  what  sort  on  a  man  teks  up 
wi'  you,  'appen." 

"  'Appen,"  said  Miss  Bates,  with  great  reservoirs  of 
meaning  wisdom  dammed  up  behind  the  accent  of  that 
word.  And  then,  not  finding  quite  sufficient  satisfaction 
in  this  inflectional  superiority,  could  not  resist  the  temp- 
tation to  cry  out:  "Bud  'e  '11  'ave  to  be  different  fro'  be 
yon  sort  of  a  man,  onny  road." 

"When  's  weddin'?"  Arny  asked. 

"Nay,  ah  can't  tell  ye  owt  more,  wi'oot  mekkin'  it  up," 
Dixon  said.  "Pick  what  there  is  for  yersens.  Ah  lay, 
ye  '11  manage  to  fin'  seummut  fresh  in  it."  And  looking 
towards  the  mid-parlor  door:  "'As  'e  come  doon  yet?" 
he  inquired. 

"Ay,  a  goodish  bit  sin',"  Miss  Bates  said.  "Bud  ah 
thought  it  was  women  'at  did  all  gossipin'!"  she  de- 
claimed angrily,  seeing  the  blessed  standard  of  intelli- 
gence-bearer thus  being  wrenched  from  her  grasp  and  car- 
ried into  the  Spawer's  breakfast-table  by  another.  And 
raising  her  voice  more  loudly  as  the  figure  of  Dixon  dis- 
appeared from  the  kitchen  on  its  coveted  errand :  "Ay,  ye 
can  talk  aboot  women  talkin',  mah  wod !  Ye  can  an'  all. 
Bud  what  aboot  a  man's  tongue  'at  must  needs  gan  off 
as  soon  as  it  's  gotten  to  know  seummut,  an'  tell  it  to  iv- 
verybody  ?  Ah  'd  for  shame  to  show  mysen  so  throng  wi' 
other  people's  news !"  And  thus  commencing  to  whip  up 
the  top  of  indignation  within  her,  till  it  hummed  loudly 
and  threateningly,  found  an  effective  lodgment  for 
her  hand  all  of  a  sudden  on  the  side  of  Lewis's  cheek. 


336  THE  POST-GIRL 

"Put   yer   mucky   fingers   gain-'and   that   bacon,    if   ye 
dare!" 

So  the  Spawer  was  not  the  only  one  to  whom  the  news 
of  Pam's  engagement  came  as  a  blow,  only  he  lacked 
Lewis's  privilege  of  crying  for  it. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

SUNDAY  morning  opened  out  scowlingly,  with  an  an- 
gry watery  look  that  saw  no  pleasure  in  anything. 
There  was  no  rain,  but  there  were  great  black  clouds 
heaped  up  in  the  sky,  every  one  containing  a  thunder- 
storm, if  not  a  couple.  Such  clouds  they  were  as  you  can 
make  for  yourselves  by  dipping  a  thumb  in  ink  and 
smearing  circularly  over  paper.  Between  the  superim- 
posed piles  of  them  at  times,  as  they  rifted,  the  cold  grey 
light  poured  down  upon  the  level  landscape  below  like 
pailfuls  of  water.  The  chill  drops  still  spangled  every- 
where from  the  recent  rain.  Every  bird  that  flew  out  of 
the  hedges  scattered  diamonds  in  its  passage.  The  grass 
was  bowed  down  beneath  its  watery  burden,  drop  upon 
drop  was  strung  on  the  bended  blades.  The  trailing 
porch  of  flowering  tea  hung  weightily  over  the  door, 
ready  to  discharge  its  accumulated  wetness  down  any 
neck  that  passed  under.  On  all  the  window-sills  were 
long,  tremulous  watery  rows  of  jewels.  The  white- 
washed walls  of  the  house  were  soaked  and  mottled; 
everywhere  about  the  path  and  laneways  were  great 
pools  of  gathered  water,  shivering  under  the  breath  that 
blew  over  them  now  and  again,  in  apprehension  of  more. 
A  very  day,  indeed,  for  hot  coffee,  odorous  ham,  and 
smoking  mushrooms— as  all  these  ministrants  to  the 
stomach's  comfort  on  the  Spawer's  breakfast-table  there 
are— but  the  Spawer  only  looks  at  them  in  staring  disre- 
gard. 

22  537 


338  THE  POST-GIRL 

This  last  blow  about  Pam  has  struck  him  so  suddenly 
and  so  forcefully  that  he  can  only  keep  feeling  himself 
over,  and  wonder  what  bones  are  broken,  and  how  many. 
His  pride,  he  knows,  has  suffered  a  nasty  shock.  All 
along  he  has  been  reckoning  upon  the  girl  as  though  she 
were  an  actual  possession,  to  be  left  or  taken  at  his  own 
sweet  will;  a  fixed  star  in  the  firmament.  And  lo!  now 
he  finds  she  is  very  much  of  a  planet,  with  a  path  of  her 
own,  that  has  swum  into  his  ken  and  swum  out  again, 
leaving  the  astronomer  stuck  in  the  mud  with  his  tele- 
scope to  his  eye,  a  pitiable  object  of  miscalculation. 

And  by  turns  he  is  incredulous  and  despairing,  and 
hopeful  and  indignant  and  irate.  She  is  not  going  to  be 
married.  It  is  a  lie.  There  is  no  truth  in  it.  She  is  go- 
ing to  be  married.  The  shadow-man,  the  moonlight,  the 
parting,  her  avoidance  of  him — all  point  to  the  truth  of 
it. 

Pam  was  marrying  a  pair  of  bell-bottomed  trousers 
and  a  shabby  morning  coat.  Horrible !  horrible ! 

Oh,  the  sting  was  bitter!  The  disappointment  su- 
preme. Even  his  love  for  the  girl  was  so  steeped  in  the 
sense  of  humiliation  and  of  grief  that  she  should  have 
fallen  to  such  extent  below  the  standard  of  his  meas- 
urement, that  at  times  almost  he  failed  to  tell  whether  he 
really  loved  her  any  longer,  or  was  possessed  only  of 
pity. 

He  could  n't  believe  it.  On  his  soul,  he  could  n't  be- 
lieve it.  He  knew  it  was  true,  but  he  could  n't  believe  it. 
On  Sunday  morning,  wet  or  fine,  he  must  go  to  Ullbrig 
and  learn  the  truth.  Father  Mostyn  would  be  sure  to 
know  and  tell  him. 

And  meanwhile  he  had  to  garb  himself  with  the  extra 


THE  POST- GIRL  339 

scrupulousness  of  attire  for  covering  his  torn  pride. 
Now  that  he  was  humbled  he  must  be  very  proud.  He 
must  show  no  tell-tale  flinchings.  He  must  laugh  with 
the  lazy,  half-contemptuous  humor,  as  though  this  little 
rustic  world  .  .  .  Morbleu !  .  .  .  this  little  pasture  of  bu- 
colic clods  .  .  .  this  fallow  field  of  earthen  intelligences 
.  .  .  you  understand?  .  .  .  this  pitiable  place  called  Ull- 
brig,  meant  no  more  to  him  in  serious  reality  than  Jarge 
Yenery's  straw  hat.  If  this  thing  were  so,  as  he  knew 
and  dared  not  believe  ...  it  should  be  buried  in  his 
bosom  and  heaped  under  a  thousand  simulations  of  in- 
difference. Neither  the  girl  nor  any  in  Ullbrig  should 
have  the  gratification  of  knowing  that  he  had  ever  acted 
to  her  as  other  than  the  friend. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

IT  lacked  yet  some  minutes  to  service  time  when  the 
Spawer  passed  up  the  path  to  church.  In  the  porch 
old  Obadiah  Beestman,  with  a  bell-rope  in  one  hand  and 
a  bell-rope  in  the  other,  and  his  right  foot  slung  in  the 
noose  of  a  third,  was  still  ringing  his  dismal  ding,  dang, 
dong,  as  the  Spawer  entered.  Obadiah  is  also  clerk  and 
sexton  too,  and  is  shrewdly  suspected  by  his  Reverence 
of  Nonconformist  proclivities  into  the  bargain. 

He  nodded  solemn  greeting  to  the  Spawer  as  the 
Spawer  arrived — the  ringing  of  the  bells  being  to  Oba- 
diah as  much  a  part  of  the  morning's  devotion  as  the 
Prayers  and  Litany— if  not  more— and  told  him,  "Onny 
on  'em  to  left  'and."  By  which  he  meant  that  the  Spawer 
was  at  liberty  to  occupy  any  pew  that  caught  his  fancy, 
without  fear  of  trespassing  upon  rights  or  being  dis- 
turbed. Not  a  soul,  so  far,  was  in  church.  The  Spawer 
picked  his  favorite  pew,  with  its  faded  green  cushion  and 
family  of  hassocks— the  grand  patriarch  standing  a  foot 
and  a  half  high,  and  sloped  for  the  knees  to  rest  on  with- 
out unnecessary  bending;  with  others  of  various  shapes 
and  sizes,  down  to  the  baby  sawdust-stuffed  buffet,  no 
bigger  than  a  bath  bun.  Once  upon  a  time,  some  God- 
fearing household  of  the  Established  Faith  had  come 
here  week  by  week  to  worship,  and  brought  these  has- 
socks to  kneel  upon,  and  this  cushion  for  ease  in  sitting, 
and  had  died  or  gone  away,  while  the  tokens  of  their  de- 

340 


THE  POST-GIRL  341 

votions  were  lapsed  into  possession  of  the  church.  In  his 
old  right-hand  corner,  with  his  shoulders  fitted  into  the 
angle  of  the  high  pew-back  and  side,  he  sat  and  turned 
over  the  books  within  reach ;  hymns,  ancient  and  modern, 
commencing  at  page  twenty ;  prayer-books,  decorated  with 
rude  designs  of  the  human  body,  with  poems  against 
theft,  and  so  much  inscribed  with  names  of  ownership 
that  the  nine  points  of  law  and  possession  were  merged  in 
them  quite;  some  small,  some  large;  all  clammy  and 
smelling  of  the  vault.  Up  and  down  the  woodwork  of 
the  pew,  and  the  hymn-books,  and  the  green  cushions, 
were  the  glistening  tracks  of  lethargic  but  progress-mak- 
ing snails.  All  over  the  damp  walls  of  the  church  they 
ran  too,  like  luminous  hieroglyphics  of  death  and  decay; 
and  over  the  mural  tablet  in  marble  to  the  memory  of 
Francis  Shuttlewell  Drayman,  one  time  vicar,  who 
served  God  in  this  church  faithfully  for  forty-nine  years, 
and  was  given  rest  as  a  reward  for  his  labors  on  Febru- 
ary 19,  1799.  Also  Hannah,  wife  of  the  above,  who  de- 
parted this  life  in  search  of  her  beloved  husband,  August 
5,  1804. 

As  the  Spawer  sits  and  ponders  over  these  things,  try- 
ing to  assimilate  them  by  a  sort  of  spontaneous  process 
with  his  own  state— and  find  one  common  key  which 
shall  fit  all  the  varied  wards  of  the  locks  of  life— the 
worshippers  begin  to  assemble.  Mrs.  Hesketh,  holding 
her  youngest  by  the  hand  and  piloting  it  (whether  a  boy 
or  a  girl  does  not  exactly  make  itself  apparent  to  a  super- 
ficial observation)  up  the  aisle  in  front  of  her,  at  the 
manifest  peril  of  falling  over  it,  and  trying  by  jerks  of 
the  arm  to  shake  its  stare  off  the  Spawer,  which,  how- 
ever, requires  a  stronger  arm.  They  disappear  into  a 


342  THE  POST-GIRL 

pew  somewhere  under  the  lectern,  where  much  sibilant 
whispering  begins  to  issue  immediately  upon  their  incar- 
ceration, as  though  they  were  cooking  something;  and 
every  second  the  big  forehead  of  the  infant,  surmounted 
by  its  sailor  hat,  shows  itself  as  far  as  the  eyebrows  over 
the  pew  back  and  goes  down  suddenly,  as  though  its  sup- 
ports had  been  sundered.  Old  Mary  Bateman  shivers  up 
the  aisle  too,  on  the  far  third-class  side,  with  her  brown 
charity  shawl  drawn  tightly  over  her  shoulders  and 
clasped  into  the  pit  of  her  stomach  by  invisible  hands 
wrapped  up  in  it,  as  though  she  were  cold  and  hungry, 
and  the  pinched,  alms-house  look  of  humility  about  the 
lips  of  her  bowed  face  befitting  a  pauper.  Being  entirely 
dependent  for  everything  in  life  upon  the  mercy  of  God, 
and  having  a  very  proper  value  and  appreciation  of  it— 
which  is  too  infrequently  the  case  with  people  able  to 
earn  their  own  living — she  has  long  since  discarded  pride 
as  an  unmeaning  and  useless  appanage,  and  walks  hum- 
bly before  the  Lord  and  her  fellow-beings  (if  they  will 
kindly  pardon  the  liberty  of  her  calling  them  such)  as 
the  devoutest  Christian  might  desire.  At  Sacrament  she 
will  wait  until  the  last  lip  has  left  the  cup,  and  only  pre- 
sume to  approach  the  table  when  sought  out  and  sum- 
moned there  by  the  priestly  forefinger.  And  after  death 
she  will  go  underground  in  a  nice  deal  coffin,  as  be- 
ing cheaper  and  more  perishable,  so  that  she  may  the 
sooner  mix  her  dust  with  the  soil  and  make  room  for 
somebody  else  when  the  time  requires.  After  her  comes 
Mrs.  Makewell,  who  deems  it  advisable  to  show  herself 
occasionally  beneath  the  priestly  eye,  as  a  reminder  that 
she  is  still  able  to  go  out  charing  ("God  be  praised,  your 
Rivrence")  at  eighteenpence  a  day,  with  her  beer;  also 


THE  POST-GIRL  343 

as  a  midwife  when  requested;  and  will  give  his  Rever- 
ence judicious  samples  of  her  bronchitis  during  pauses  in 
the  service,  knowing  that  his  Reverence  hears  every 
cough  and  scrape  and  clearing,  and  bestows  port  wine 
upon  the  worthy.  While  she  is  trying  to  fasten  herself 
into  her  pew  there  are  sounds  of  a  massive  sneck  being 
lifted  somewhere  round  the  chancel  where  the  vestry  is, 
and  the  scuffle  of  loose  boots  that  are  too  big  for  the  con- 
trol of  the  feet  that  don't  fit  them  echoing  over  a  flagged 
floor.  This,  the  Spawer  knows  by  experience,  is  the 
choir.  He  even  sees  them  peering  round  from  the  far 
end  of  the  choir  stalls  and  pushing  each  other  out  into 
the  chancel,  and  hears  the  strident  hiss  of  much  whisper- 
ing, which  at  closer  quarters  would  resolve  itself  into: 

"See-ye!  Old  Moother  Bateman!  old  Moother  Bate- 
man!"  with  an  unpublishable  effusion  upon  the  subject  of 
this  unfortunate  from  the  pen  (or  the  lips,  as  he  would  n't 
know  what  to  do  with  a  pen  if  he  had  it)  of  the  Ullbrig 
bard.  "Gie  ower  shovin',  ye  young  divvle."  "Look  at 
Spawer  fro'  Dixon's,  like  a  stuffed  monkey  in  a  menag- 
erie." "Let 's  chuck  a  pay  [pea]  at  'im." 

The  sound  of  the  massive  latch  resounding  acutely 
through  the  empty  building  a  second  time  puts  a  death- 
like stop  to  the  chancel  activity,  and  an  august  step  heard 
passing  over  the  flagstones  in  lonely  majesty  of  silence 
announces  beyond  all  doubt  that  his  Reverence  has  ar- 
rived. At  the  same  moment  the  Spawer,  with  a  strange, 
nervous  fluttering  about  his  heart— as  though  he  were 
about  to  face  some  great  audience  in  his  musical  capacity 
—hears  the  whispering  echo  of  light  footsteps  going  up 
the  winding  stairs  of  stone  from  the  door  in  the  porch  to 
the  organ  loft.  If  he  had  been  a  gargoyle,  or  a  sculp- 


344  THE  POST-GIRL 

tured  effigy  of  Peter,  his  ears  would  have  heard  that 
tread,  and  known  the  maker  of  it.  Every  step  of  the 
way  he  followed  her  progress.  Now  she  had  two  more 
left,  and  then  the  loft  door.  The  two  were  taken,  and 
the  loft  door  creaked  on  its  hinges.  She  was  in  the 
church  and  behind  him.  By  an  instinct  as  unerring  as 
that  which  guides  a  homing  bird  he  felt,  with  a  painful 
throbbing  of  the  throat,  the  fact  of  his  recognition.  He 
knew,  almost  as  well  as  if  he  had  been  looking  at  the 
scene  from  some  high  point  of  vantage — higher  even 
than  the  girl's— that  she  was  gazing  down  upon  him  from 
the  organ  loft.  And  with  this  consciousness  was  poured 
into  him  from  a  vial  more  bitter  the  knowledge  of  her 
sudden  start;  the  constrained  tightening  of  her  lips;  the 
light  suddenly  extinguished  in  her  eye  at  sight  of  him; 
all  her  being  standing  still  like  a  human  apostrophe  and 
saying : 

"He  here !" 

Yes;  he  was  here.  Miserable  wretch  that  he  was;  he 
was  here. 

Into  his  shoulders  he  drew  his  neck;  wedged  his  head 
down  firmly,  and  sat  without  moving  in  the  corner  of  his 
pew.  On  other  Sundays  he  would  have  looked  round  at 
her  and  smiled  his  greeting  upward.  But  not  now.  He 
dared  not  risk  any  such  greeting  now,  lest  he  should  look- 
to  find  the  girl's  face  turning  from  him.  Without  any 
shadow  of  doubt,  their  alienation  was  complete.  He  who 
had  been  regarded  as  a  friend  at  the  first  was  come  to  be 
regarded  as  a  persecutor  now.  Even  his  presence  there 
this  morning  was  a  persecution  to  the  girl;  a  menace  to 
her.  She  could  trust  him  no  longer.  She  suspected  his 
intentions  of  dishonor,  and  was  striving  to  hold  at  arm's 


THE  POST-GIRL  345 

length  a  man  who  hung  about  the  skirts  of  her  encour- 
agement. He  renewed  his  suspended  breathing  with  a 
measure  of  relief  when  he  heard  the  sliding  rattle  of  the 
manual  doors,  and  knew  that  her  eyes  were  removed 
from  him  at  last. 

And  then  he  knew  that  another  figure  had  gone  up  to 
the  organ  loft  with  the  girl,  and  was  contemplating  him 
from  on  high ;  a  silent,  spectral  figure,  whose  flesh  seemed 
constituted  of  pale  moonlight;  and  whose  garb  was  the 
shadow  of  night. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

!<TTA!  this  is  beautiful  of  you,"  his  Reverence  said, 
X±  coming  up  to  the  Spawer  after  the  service  and  en- 
folding his  hand  in  that  warm,  balmy,  beneficent  softness 
of  palm.  "To  come  three  miles  on  a  morning  like  this 
for  the  sake  of  worshipping  in  the  true  Faith.  Beautiful ! 
beautiful !  quite  an  example  to  our  Ullbrig  laggards.  It  '11 
be  talked  of.  Ullbrig  has  only  three  yards  to  come  .  .  . 
and  it  does  n't  come  those,  as  you  see.  When  Ullbrig 
comes,  look  for  the  Millennium  or  port  wine— generally 
port  wine.  There  's  no  mistaking  the  symptoms.  Mrs. 
So-and-So's  liver  's  no  better.  Put  on  your  best  black 
dress  and  go  to  church  this  morning,  Janie ;  a  bottle  of 
his  reverence's  port  would  do  her  good.  Take  care  and 
sit  where  he  can  see  you  and  sing  as  loud  as  you  can. 
Show  him  how  capitally  you  can  find  all  your  places,  and 
don't  stare  about  you  when  he  's  preaching.  That  's  our 
Ullbrig  way.  Go  to  church  to  get  something  out  of  it  if 
you  can.  'His  reverence  gets  paid  for  preaching;  we 
ought  to  get  something  for  going.  That  's  only  fair.' 
See  what  his  reverence  the  vicar  's  to  put  up  with  in  a 
place  like  this.  Ex  nihilo  nihil  fit.  That  's  our  motto; 
which,  being  rendered  according  to  Ullbrig  theologians, 
means :  Nothing  done  without  good  value  given  for  it  in 
return.  If  Nonconformity  had  n't  its  tea-urns  and  its 
bath  buns  it  would  n't  hold  sway  over  Ullbrig  another 
twenty-four  hours.  Plenty  of  hot  tea  and  big  bath  buns, 
with  plenty  of  flies  and  currants  in  'em ;  that  's  the  way 


THE  POST-GIRL  347 

to  subjugate  the  heathen  bucolic  beast.  Music  's  no  good— 
any  more  than  the  Church.  We  're  dogs  with  bad  names 
to  start  with,  both  of  us.  Musicians  are  unscrupulous, 
dissipated  vagabonds,  such  as  you,  that  live  by  their  wits, 
as  everybody  knows.  Vicars  of  the  Established  Church 
are  children  of  Satan  and  prophets  of  Baal.  We  're  both 
in  the  same  boat.  And,"  said  he,  picking  up  the  dismem- 
bered mortar-board  from  its  place  by  the  water-bottle, 
"this  morning  we  shall  have  to  swim  for  it.  You  can't  go 
back  to  Cliff  Wrangham  in  the  teeth  of  a  storm  like  this 
that  's  brewing." 

"It  's  awfully  good  of  you  .  .  ."  the  Spawer  began. 
"But  really,  I  counted  the  risks  when  I  came.  I  'm  ready 
to  take  my  chance." 

"Ha !  not  a  bit  of  it !  not  a  bit  of  it !"  his  Reverence  ob- 
jected, lifting  up  his  forefinger.  "You  shall  take  your 
chance  with  me.  It  '11  be  a  dry  chance,  if  frugal.  We 
don't  get  so  many  faithful  here  that  we  can  afford  to  treat 
them  with  indifference.  Come  along  with  you.  We  '11  lock 
up  and  make  a  bolt  for  it.  I  daresay  we  can  find  some- 
thing in  the  larder  to  serve  us  in  lieu  of  lunch  if  the 
storm  sets  in.  And  judging  by  the  sound  of  it" — a  pro- 
longed peal  of  thunder  spread  itself  out  above  them  and 
shook  the  hollow  fabric  of -the  church  to  its  uttermost 
corner — "it  's  going  to  be  a  stayer." 

Together  they  made  the  round  of  the  building,  closing 
up  all  the  swing  windows  against  the  deluge  that  must  in- 
evitably come,  and  giving  the  lock  of  the  exterior  vestry 
door  two  turns  as  the  clerk  had  admonished  them,  set  the 
thick  fibre  mat  close  against  the  lower  chink  to  oppose 
any  intrusive  swill  of  water,  and  did  what  they  thought 
best  in  such  cases  as  those  where  a  diamond  pane  lacked 


348  THE  POST-GIRL 

in  the  leaded  windows;  removing  the  hassocks  from  be- 
low, and  spreading  a  mouldy  cushion  or  two  to  absorb  the 
bulk  of  what  wetness  came  through. 

They  had  only  just  completed  the  last  of  their  prep- 
arations when  a  vivid  streak  of  lightning  flashed  in  the 
yellow,  murky  air  like  a  knife-blade,  and  seemed  to  rip 
up  the  great  baggy  canopy  of  water  suspended  above 
them  at  one  slice.  A  roar  of  enraged  thunder  followed 
the  deadly  thrust,  and  the  rain  fell  whizzing  to  earth  next 
moment  like  arrows. 

His  Reverence  gathered  up  his  cassock  in  both  hands 
as  far  as  the  knees,  and  screwing  up  his  mouth  and  aim- 
ing a  way  for  himself  with  one  eye  through  the  thick 
downpour  to  the  Vicarage  gate— but  a  dozen  paces  or  so 
from  the  porch— made  a  game  dash  for  cover. 

"Ha!  capital!  capital!"  his  Reverence  was  saying  at 
the  other  side  of  the  close,  bruised,  blistered,  and  by  this 
time  rain-soaked  door,  wiping  the  drops  off  his  chin  and 
nose-end,  and  running  the  handkerchief  round  the  inner 
rim  of  his  Roman  collar.  "That  's  one  of  the  beauties  of 
living  by  your  own  porch.  The  elements  have  n't  any 
terrors  for  you,"  and  stamping  his  feet  upon  the  flags  to 
shake  out  the  legs  of  his  trousers,  where  he  had  rucked 
them  over  his  shoes,  he  led  the  way  into  the  sanctum 
sanctorum,  so  full  for  the  Spawer  with  memories  of  by- 
gone happiness. 

A  dual  sense  of  gladness  and  sadness  possessed  him  as 
he  walked  forward.  Here  he  was  very  close  to,  and  here 
he  was  very  far  from,  the  spirit  of  Pam.  Out  of  every 
tile  he  trod  on  some  brooding  remembrance  of  the  girl 
rose  up  as  though  his  foot  had  dislodged  it ;  wound  about 
him  like  the  sorrowing  smoke  from  a  funeral  pyre  and 


THE  POST- GIRL  349 

dissolved.  In  every  corner  of  the  room  they  entered,  the 
spirit  of  the  girl  seemed  to  linger.  All  about  the  room 
were  the  visible  tokens  of  the  girl's  presence— tokens  so 
acute  that  to  each  of  them  his  mind's  eye  supplied  the 
absent  figure  of  the  girl  as  she  had  been  at  the  actual  mo- 
ment of  its  accomplishment.  Here  she  was  stooping  to 
straighten  the  antimacassar  of  a  chair;  here  she  was 
smoothing  a  cushion;  here  she  was  adjusting  the  objects 
on  his  Reverence's  writing-table. 

And  because  the  Spawer's  heart  was  full  of  the  girl, 
they  did  not  touch  upon  Pam  first  of  all.  Instead,  they 
talked  of  the  storm,  of  the  thunder,  of  the  crops. 

And  all  the  while  his  Reverence  was  making  excur- 
sions to  various  corners  of  the  storm-darkened  room; 
opened  the  cupboard  door  and  plunged  his  hands  with  a 
rattle  into  a  hidden  knife  basket;  tried  the  blades  on  his 
thumb,  and  sprang  them  critically  against  his  palm  for 
selection;  jingled  amid  silver  forks,  and  counted  them  to 
his  requirements,  large  and  small ;  brought  forth  glasses, 
tumblers  and  wine  glasses,  and  liqueur ;  then  casters  and 
bottled  condiments;  plates  and  napery,  and  laying  them 
on  the  far  end  of  the  big  dining-table,  cleared  that  space 
near  the  window  for  their  ultimate  disposal. 

"Let  's  see  .  .  .  one,  two  .  .  .  did  I  bring  the  forks? 
To  be  sure.  What  am  I  thinking  of?  Capital!  capital! 
I  've  been  so  long  in  other  people's  clover,  you  see,  that 
I  'm  forgetting  how  to  graze  on  my  own  meagre  grass- 
land. That  's  better— and  the  salt.  Well !  and  what  's 
the  concerto  been  doing  all  this  time?  Made  headway, 
has  it?" 

He  picked  open  a  folded  table-cloth  by  its  two  corners, 
and  shook  it  out  of  its  stiff,  snowy  creasing. 


350  THE  POST-GIRL 

The  Spawer  told  him  that  he  was  afraid  ...  it  had  n't 
been  doing  much.  To  tell  the  truth  (that  candid  truth 
at  which  the  Spawer  was  becoming  such  an  adept),  the 
weather  had  corrupted  him.  First  of  all  it  had  been  too 
fine  .  .  .  and  then  it  had  been  too  wet.  This  rain  had 
unsettled  him.  It  had  washed  out  all  his  inspiration. 
He  'd  only  felt  inclined  to  stick  his  fingers  in  his  pockets 
and  shiver  over  fires.  The  keys  were  too  cold  and  damp. 
There  was  no  warmth  about  them. 

His  Reverence  gathered  the  cloth,  and  spread  it  over 
the  table.  "Indeed?  I  suppose  you  've  not  seen  much 
of  Pamela  .  .  .  since  I  left?"  he  asked  casually. 

The  Spawer's  heart  hit  him  under  the  chin. 

"Pam  ?"  he  replied,  as  though  for  the  moment  nothing 
had  been  further  than  this  girl  from  his  thoughts.  "Very 
little.  Let  's  see.  One  .  .  .  no,  twice,  I  believe.  Yes; 
twice  to  speak  to  since  you  've  been  away." 

"Ha!"  said  his  Reverence,  and  smoothed  the  cloth 
scrupulously  down  all  its  creases  and  over  the  corners  of 
the  table. 

What  did  that  oracular  "Ha !"  mean?  Did  it  mean  that 
his  Reverence  knew  the  whole  history  of  those  two  times — 
or  suspected  it?  .  .  .or  knew  nothing;  suspected  noth- 
ing? There  are  moments  when  an  ambiguous  monosyl- 
lable is  more  potent  than  the  wisest  of  words— and  this 
was  one  of  them.  The  Spawer  waited  a  little  space,  while 
his  Reverence  passed  his  smooth  palm  backwards  and 
forwards  over  the  snowy  surface,  in  the  hopes  that  he 
might  add  something  to  that  unexplanatory  "Ha !"  But 
his  Reverence  said  nothing.  He  might  have  been  wait- 
ing too. 

"I  've  heard,  though  .  .  ."  the  Spawer  began,  feeling 


THE  POST-GIRL  351 

the  discomfort  of  that  monosyllable  like  a  drop  of  cold 
water  down  his  neck,  and  stopped  there  suggestively. 

"Ha !"  His  Reverence  passed  a  concluding  hand  over 
the  table-cloth,  and  straightened  himself  with  puckered 
mouth  and  portentous  brows.  "...  Unfortunately 
true.  Unfortunately  true.  Yes." 

"Unfortunately"  true !    The  Vicar,  then,  was  his  ally. 

"...  At  first,"  he  said,  professing  suddenly  that  the 
destiny  of  two  drops,  trickling  slowly  towards  each  other 
on  the  window-pane,  was  of  more  moment  to  him  than 
the  matter  of  the  girl,  "...  at  first  ...  I  hardly  be- 
lieved it.  I  suppose,  though  .  .  .  you  say  there  's  no 
mistake." 

His  Reverence  shook  his  head,  and  passed  over  to  the 
cupboard  again. 

"A  very  great  mistake,"  he  said,  stooping  on  one  knee 
and  speaking  into  the  cavernous  recesses  of  the  shelves ; 
and  after  a  moment:  "A  very  great  mistake,"  he  said. 
"I  'm  not  surprised  at  your  incredulity.  Of  course,  being 
ignorant  of  circumstances,  you  've  nothing  but  your 
judgment  to  guide  you — and  plainly  judgment  would 
lead  you  to  pronounce  against  such  a  form  of  proceed- 
ing. Yes !"  He  raised  himself  from  the  floor  with  the 
twisted  face  for  a  rheumatic  twinge  in  his  knee,  and  re- 
turned once  more  to  his  table  preparations.  "I  must 
admit  that  the  girl  has  disappointed  me.  Of  course  .  .  . 
ever  since  the  beginning— as  Ullbrig  will  tell  you  if  you 
care  to  pay  it  the  compliment  of  asking  (which  I  don't 
suppose  you  will) — this  has  been  a  contingency  to  reckon 
with.  But  I  'd  hoped.  You  see  ...  it  's  different. 
Things  latterly  had  looked  so  favorable.  I  thought  the 
musical  experiment  was  likely  to  succeed.  Ha!  and  the 


352  THE  POST-GIRL 

French  too.  Yes,  yes;  the  French  too.  It  seemed  to 
have  stimulated  the  girl  to  aspirations  altogether  beyond 
Ullbrig.  I  thought  we  'd  trained  her  palate  to  require 
daintier  food  in  every  respect  than  Ullbrig  could  give  her. 
And  then  ...  all  at  once  ...  to  be  beaten  on  the  post. 
Of  course — "  he  drew  attention  to  what  followed  with  a 
quiet  gesture,  as  though  it  were  really  quite  obvious 
enough  without  the  superfluous  emphasis  of  pointing  out 
— "  ...  it  would  be  quite  possible  for  me  to  forbid  the 
thing — veto  it  completely  and  put  a  stop  to  it  once  for  all. 
But  then  .  .  ."  he  screwed  up  his  mouth  for  a  moment's 
reconsideration  of  what  such  an  act  would  effect,  "for 
the  present  I  have  n't  quite  found  my  justification  for  this 
extreme  measure." 

"He  is  ...  a  schoolmaster?"  the  Spawer  hazarded. 

"Exactly ;  our  Ullbrig  schoolmaster.  A  worthy  enough 
man,  no  doubt,  in  his  own  particular  way— but  it  is  n't 
the  way  I  had  in  my  mind  for  Pam.  I  believe  he  excels 
somewhat  in  free-hand  and  rule  of  three.  These  are  his 
specialties.  His  father — if  my  memory  serves  me 
right—"  here  the  Vicar  appeared  to  interrogate  his  mem- 
ory through  fringed  lashes,  "...  was  a — ha!— small 
greengrocer  and  mixed  provision  dealer— Knaresbro' 
way,  I  believe.  Of  course,  under  ordinary  circumstances, 
I  should  have  had  no  alternative  but  to  nip  the  whole 
affair  in  the  bud  ;  pack  Pam  away,  if  need  be,  and  arrange 
meanwhile  for  the  fellow  to  be  transplanted  in  some  pe- 
culiarly far  and  foreign  soil.  But  as  it  is  .  .  .  that  seems 
an  unnecessary  setting  of  the  mills  to  grind  without  grist. 
If  we  stop  this  marriage  .  .  ."  His  eye  roamed  over  the 
table,  where  knives  and  forks  and  spoons  and  plates  and 
glasses  commenced  to  array  themselves  with  a  semblance 


THE  POST-GIRL  353 

of  order  beneath  his  fingers.  The  Spawer's  eye  shifted, 
as  a  meeting  seemed  imminent.  "...  Perhaps,  when 
I  'm  dead  and  gone,  she  may  contract  a' worse.  Situated 
as  she  is,  without  friends  or  society,  we  can't  hope  to 
place  her  in  life  as  by  right  and  reason  she  should  be 
placed.  Perhaps,  if  one  could  only  finance  the  girl,  and 
secure  fashionable  influence  for  her,  and  float  her 
upon  the  social  sea,  she  might  repay  the  investment 
cent  for  cent.  But  on  the  other  hand  .  .  .  there  's 
always  a  fear.  Knowing  nothing  of  the  tempta- 
tions of  society  life,  she  might  fall  to  the  first  barrel  like 
a  lame  pigeon.  Besides,  the  girl  shows  no  hankerings 
after  the  flesh-pots.  There  's  not  a  pinch  of  mundane 
salt  in  her  nature.  So  why  apply  it  with  one's  own  fin- 
gers, and  spoil  her  in  the  seasoning?  Ha!  why  indeed? 
Therefore,  as  things  stand,  she  must  be  sacrificed.  This 
man  wants  her  and  she  wants  him — more  strongly  than 
even  I  'd  supposed — and  when  all  's  said  and  done,  we 
might  only  make  worse  of  it  if  we  tried  to  twist  human 
nature  to  our  own  preconcerted  theories.  At  least,  the 
fellow  has  no  positive  vices — they  are  mostly  negative. 
He  is  steady,  sober,  respectable;  a  hard  worker,  likely — 
so  far  as  one  can  foresee — to  provide  the  girl  with  a  cer- 
tain home  for  life.  For  an  indefinite  period  they  may 
remain  at  Ullbrig,  where— except  for  those  inevitable 
little  disturbances  which  we  may  expect  under  conditions 
of  matrimony — her  existence  will  be  but  slightly  changed. 
Of  course,  she  will  have  to  relinquish  her  postal  duties, 
but  her  parochial  work  will  suffer  no  modification. 

"Ha!  now  for  the  larder.  Let  's  see  what  there  is  to 
pick.  Do  you  feel  anything  in  the  lobster  way?  Here  's 
a  pie  that  Pam  's  cooked  and  stuffed  into  the  larder  for 

23 


354  THE  POST-GIRL 

me — knowing  I  should  be  back  too  late  to  lay  in  stock  for 
Sunday.  Dear  girl.  Why  in  the  world  could  n't  she 
think  as  beautifully  for  herself  as  she  does  for  others? 
And  here  's  his  reverence's  brown  loaf,  and  some  beet, 
and  some  herring  olives.  Come,  come !  We  shan't  do  so 
badly." 

"You  only  got  back  last  night?"  the  Spawer  inquired. 

"Last  night  only,"  his  Reverence  rejoined,  dispersing 
his  various  acquisitions  about  the  table.  "Came  along 
with  Friend  Tankard  from  Hunmouth.  Poor  Friend 
Tankard !  I  think  he  gets  slower  and  slower.  Some  day, 
mark  my  words,  he  '11  set  out  from  Hunmouth,  and  never 
reach  Ullbrig  at  all.  That  '11  be  the  end  of  him.  How- 
ever, he  did  just  manage  to  pull  us  through  this  time,  and 
for  the  rest  of  the  evening  I  was  interviewing  our  errant 
sister.  But  she  stood  firm.  I  tried  to  shake  her  on  all 
points ;  had  her  in  tears  even.  Yes,  poor  girl,  had  her  in 
tears.  She  rained  copiously,  but  it  only  seemed  to  water 
the  roots  of  her  resolve.  She  used  the  tears  of  my  mak- 
ing to  beg  to  me  with.  Ha !  Let  's  see  ...  to  be  sure ! 
The  beer.  You  're  a  beer  man,  at  least,  are  n't  you? — 
even  though  you  stop  short  of  whiskey.  Capital !  capital ! 
I  'm  going  to  offer  you  a  little  specialty  of  my  own.  It  's 
a  local  beer — not  Ullbriggian,  by  the  way— but  from  the 
district,  and  you  '11  say  you  never  tasted  its  equal.  Foams 
like  champagne  and  bites  like  a  nettle.  Mild  withal." 

He  disappeared  from  sight  on  this  new  errand,  and  re- 
turned, after  a  remote  sound  of  clinking,  with  half  a 
dozen  bottles  of  his  specialty,  three  by  the  neck  in  each 
hand. 

"Here  we  are!  If  the  light  were  n't  so  bad,  I  'd  ask 
vou  to  examine  the  color.  But  that  's  no  use.  We  '11  let 


THE  POST-GIRL  355 

that  go,  and  judge  by  the  taste  alone.  .  .  .  And  so—" 
By  a  skilful  intonation  he  cleared  his  voice  of  the  beer, 
and  skipped  back  to  the  old  topic  where  they  had  been 
before.  ...  In  the  end  we  allowed  the  matter  to 
stand,  and  deferred  judgment." 

"And  they  will  be  married  .  .  ."  the  Spawer  began. 

He  was  thankful  beyond  measure  that  the  Vicar  picked 
him  up  without  delay,  for  his  voice  went  suddenly  as 
husky  as  bran. 

"Not  yet !  not  yet !"  his  Reverence  said.  "That  's  quite 
another  thing.  Though,  for  that  matter,  the  girl  wished 
to  prevail  over  my  scruples  even  there,  and  persuade  me 
to  an  actual  date  and  definite  consent.  But  no.  They 
must  possess  their  souls  in  patience  until  I  've  had  oppor- 
tunity to  study  them  under  these  new  conditions.  I  'm 
prepared  to  let  her  go,  since  her  happiness  requires  it,  but 
I  'm  not  going  to  throw  her.  Besides  ...  a  little  object 
lesson  of  this  kind  appeared  to  me  desirable.  As  I  pointed 
out  to  Pam,  the  man's  conduct  in  the  matter  left  much  to 
be  desired.  Had  he  been  possessed  of  the  natural  instincts 
of  a  gentleman  he  would  have  approached  me  first,  before 
intruding  himself  upon  the  girl's  affections." 

"Of  course,"  the  Spawer  acquiesced  hurriedly. 

He  loathed  himself  for  a  cowardly  renegade  as  he  did 
so,  but  the  priest's  eye,  to  his  guilty  vision,  fixed  him  with 
such  a  meaning  glance  of  severity  that  he  felt  anything 
short  of  verbal  agreement  would  betray  him. 

"Of  course,"  Father  Mostyn  repeated,  with  renewed 
emphasis.  "The  proper  way— indeed,  the  only  way  for  a 
gentleman — would  have  been  to  approach  me  in  the  first 
instance,  and  receive  my  sanction  before  unsettling  the 
girl  with  a  suit  which  subsequent  events  might  prove  to 


356  THE  POST-GIRL 

be  undesirable.  But  there,  of  course,  ypu  have  the  man, 
unfortunately.  I  daresay  his  nature  would  be  quite  un- 
able to  appreciate  the  niceness  of  the  point — even  if  you 
explained  it  to  him.  Now  you  and  I" — here  the  terrible 
condemnatory  look  seemed  to  be  fixed  on  the  Spawer 
again— "know  these  little  matters  by  instinct,  as  it  were. 
Such  things  as  those  are  in  our  blood.  We  don't  work 
out  our  conduct  by  free-hand  and  rule  of  three.  It  's 
inbred  in  us.  We  act  upon  them  as  spontaneously  as  a 
pointer  points.  Ha !"  He  ticked  off  the  first  and  second 
fingers  of  the  left  hand  with  the  magnetic  index-finger  of 
the  right.  "Bread  .  .  .  corkscrew  .  .  ."  and  hesitated 
at  the  third  as  though  uncertain  whether  there  did  not 
exist  some  still  further  necessity.  "Ha!  to  be  sure,"  he 
said,  and  wagged  his  shoulders,  "cheese."  He  ambled 
genially  out  of  the  room  again,  and  returned  presently 
with  a  loaf  of  white  bread  on  a  wooden  trencher,  a  cork- 
screw, a  lever,  and  a  dish  of  Cheddar. 

"Now,  come  along !  come  along !"  he  said,  all  his  being 
fused  in  the  glowing  warmth  of  hospitality,  and  sending 
forth  its  comforting  rays  even  to  the  Spawer's  chill 
fibres.  "There  's  nothing  to  wait  for — except  grace  from 
Heaven.  That 's  it.  Draw  up  your  chair  and  make  your- 
self at  home." 

And  bending  his  head  over  the  tinned  lobster:  "In  the 
name  of  the  Father,  the  Son,  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost." 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

A  ND  now,  thinks  the  Spawer,  with  the  fine  egoism  of 
ijL  wounded  love,  there  is  not  in  the  whole  world  a 
heart  so  heavy  as  his. 

But  he  is  wrong,  for  here  in  Ullbrig  hangs  a  heavier. 

Heaven  knows  Pam  had  sinned  in  a  hard  market, 
and  bought  her  iniquity  dear.  Other  people,  worldly 
people  of  experience  and  sagacity,  know  how  to  obtain 
all  their  sins  below  par,  at  the  expense  of  the  widow  and 
orphaned.  Pam,  knowing  nothing  of  this  moral  stock- 
and-share  market,  was  paying  for  her  shares  with  every- 
thing that  she  possessed.  To  the  last  penny  of  her  self- 
respect  she  was  paying  for  them.  Of  all  moral  and  con- 
scientious coinage  she  was  void  and  bankrupt.  There 
was  nothing  left  her  now  but  the  body  she  lived  in — all 
its  beautiful  furnishment  of  soul  had  been  distrained  and 
bundled  out  by  the  bailiffs  long  ago.  And  the  body  was 
mortgaged. 

For  this  marriage — that  to  the  Spawer  looked  but  a 
callous  flaunting  of  her  bliss  before  his  stricken  eyes,  a 
cruel  demonstration  of  how  little  she  was  dependent 
upon  him  for  any  share  of  her  happiness  in  life— what 
was  it  but  a  foreclosure  ?  She  who  had  preached  the  gos- 
pel of  true  love,  of  the  necessary  unity  of  the  body  and 
the  soul  in  marriage ;  who  had  proclaimed  to  Ginger  that 
"there  must  be  no  chance  about  it,  Ginger!  .  .  ."  she 
who  above  all  girls  knew  a  love  as  free  of  carnality  as 

357 


358  THE  POST-GIRL 

any  earthly  love  can  be— she  was  selling  her  body  now 
for  its  price. 

Would  she  ever  forget  the  night  of  horror  that  saw 
the  compact  made.  The  lonely,  dusty  highroad  to  Hun- 
mouth,  with  its  wide  grass  borders  sloping  down  to  the 
ditch  bottoms,  between  the  trimmed,  stunted  hedgerows, 
where  the  schoolmaster  led  her;  the  rising  moon;  the 
sickly,  suffocating  mist  of  harvest;  the  dim  stars.  And 
there,  backward  and  forward  over  the  powdery  road, 
she  had  fought  that  last  fateful  fight  for  her  soul's  free- 
dom—and failed. 

Give  her  the  letter  back  .  .  .  only  give  her  the  letter 
back  .  .  .  and  she  would  try  to  love  him  in  earnest.  She 
would  force  herself  to  love  him.  This  time  she  should 
not  fail.  Give  her  the  letter  back.  It  was  not  his ;  it  was 
not  hers.  Come  with  her  himself  if  he  doubted,  and  see 
her  hand  it  in  at  Dixon's  door.  She  swore  she  would 
give  it.  He  did  not  understand.  It  had  been  all  a  mis- 
take. She  had  not  meant  to  take  it.  If  he  only  knew  the 
horror  she  had  felt  of  herself.  Oh,  she  promised!  she 
promised ! 

But  the  man  would  have  no  promises.  She  had  made 
him  promises  before  and  broken  them.  Here  was  the 
letter— here  in  his  possession— and  here  it  should  remain, 
for  witness  against  her,  if  need  be,  until  the  thing  was 
settled.  Let  her  call  him  what  she  would  now ;  abuse 
him  as  she  liked ;  hate  him — all  was  one.  This  night  she 
must  let  it  be  proclaimed  in  the  family  that  they  were 
plighted.  As  soon  as  Father  Mostyn  returned,  she  must 
plead  for  them  both  with  him.  Not  until  she  had  pledged 
herself  publicly  beyond  all  prospect  of  withdrawal  would 
he  give  the  letter  up.  Promises  availed  nothing.  He 


THE  POST-GIRL  359 

was  done  with  promises.  If  she  would  not  accept  him  on 
these  terms  it  was  a  plain  proof  that  she  did  not  mean  to 
fulfil  them,  and  unless  she  was  prepared  to  fulfil  them 
she  must  abide  by  the  consequences. 

And  more  tears;  and  more  entreaties;  and  pitiable 
shows  of  rebellion,  quickly  subdued;  and  petty  resis- 
tances; and  tortured  turnings  to  and  fro  over  the  road; 
and  at  last  surrender. 

At  last  surrender ! 

Death  even,  had  death  been  his  condition,  she  would 
have  accepted  sooner  than  this  dire  alternative.  Only  one 
idea  possessed  her  now — that  the  Spawer  should  never 
know  the  presumption  of  her  love. 

But  the  letter!  Till  he  got  that  ...  he  would  not  go 
at  all.  The  longer  its  restitution  was  delayed,  the  longer 
must  she  endure  her  agony. 

Strange  reversal  of  misery.  In  the  beginning  she  had 
suffered  with  the  sickness  of  his  going.  Now,  in  the 
end,  she  suffered  doubly  with  the  sickness  that  he  should 
stay.  Of  a  truth,  she  was  snared  in  her  own  wicked  net. 
The  sin  that  she  had  committed  against  him  was  turned 
into  an  all-sufficing  punishment  more  than  meet  for  the 
offence.  And  when  would  she  be  able  to  ease  her  pain 
in  delivering  the  letter? 

She  did  not  know.  Since  that  night  of  shameful  sur- 
render no  further  mention  of  the  letter  had  passed  be- 
tween these  two  guilty  partners,  and  because  of  the  cruel 
mercy  at  which  this  man  held  her  she  would  ask  him 
nothing.  To  appeal  to  him  respecting  his  intentions  re- 
specting her— to  inquire  of  my  lord's  pleasure,  as  though 
she  were  a  bond  slave,  purchased  with  gold  ...  no,  no, 
she  could  not !  When  he  deemed  the  time  ripe  to  return 


360  THE  POST- GIRL 

her  his  ill-gotten  seal  of  authority— once  it  had  stamped 
the  bond  to  his  service— let  him  do  so,  and  she  would 
take  it.  Till  then,  let  them  both  keep  silence  respecting 
their  compact. 

Hardly  a  word,  indeed,  passed  between  them  on  any 
topic.  And  by  trifling,  wordless  actions  the  schoolmaster 
tightened  his  hold  upon  the  girl's  shrinking  muscles,  and 
held  her  to  him  as  in  a  vice.  Mere  little  attentions  of 
courtesy  they  were,  for  the  most  part,  that  the  household 
regarded— and  kept  watch  for — with  significant  looks  to 
one  another,  seeing  in  them  the  pleasant  ripples  on  the 
seductive  surface  of  true  love — but  to  the  girl  they  were 
but  bolts  being  driven  home,  one  by  one,  into  the  pad- 
locked door  of  her  prison.  For  she  was  this  man's  pris- 
oner in  thought,  word,  and  deed.  Whenever  she  moved, 
he  moved  with  her.  If  she  hid  herself  from  him  in  her 
bedroom,  be  sure  he  was  keeping  safe  guard  over  its 
door  from  his  own.  If  she  changed  rooms,  he  was  after 
her  like  thought.  In  all  except  the  derision  of  the  outer 
world  she  was  a  felon,  convicted,  imprisoned,  and  under 
close  surveillance ;  unworthy  a  grain  of  trust  or  credence. 
When  he  handed  her  an  apron,  or  helped  her  into  her 
mackintosh,  she  felt  the  act  as  keenly  as  though  she  were 
being  given  a  gaol  garb  to  wear.  Oh,  the  degradation  of 
it  all !  lacking  only  the  degradation  of  men's  eyes.  But 
for  that  one  pair  of  eyes  which  held  her  to  her  purpose, 
she  would  rather  have  gone  to  a  real  prison  than  suffered 
this  horrible  incarceration.  And  yet,  it  was  plain  to  see, 
the  man  was  only  doing  his  best  to  gain  her  love.  He  had 
trapped  her  like  a  bird,  cruelly,  no  doubt;  but  now  that 
she  was  his,  and  caged,  he  was  ready  to  whistle  to  her, 
to  give  her  sugar;  gild  her  captivity  the  best  he  knew 


THE  POST-GIRL  361 

how.  Her  love  to  him  was  like  the  lark's  song;  he  had 
snared  her  for  that,  and  counted  on  hearing  her  sing  to 
him.  Once  she  was  his,  and  he  would  save  her  life  with 
his  own  if  it  might  be.  But  meanwhile,  teaching  her  and 
taming  her,  he  made  sure  that  the  cage  was  secure; 
passed  his  fingers  feverishly  over  its  wires  a  hundred 
times  a  day  to  assure  himself  that  he  had  overlooked  no 
loophole  for  her  escape.  There  were  letters  for  Ullbrig 
during  those  days  of  rain,  and  he  proffered  to  take  them 
in  the  girl's  stead.  With  a  rain  like  that  there  was  noth- 
ing to  be  feared.  But  the  girl  would  not.  To  his  cruelty 
she  had  had  to  submit,  but  to  his  kindness  never.  So  they 
went,  the  two  of  them — for  though  he  could  venture  to 
leave  her  behind,  he  dared  not  be  the  one  left — battling 
through  the  downpour  beneath  mackintoshes  and  umbrel- 
las, with  their  heads  down,  the  whole  roadway  apart,  ex- 
changing never  a  word.  And  Ullbrig,  safe  at  home,  be- 
hind its  starched  curtains,  saw  the  letters  come  thus,  and 
smiled. 

Truly,  many  waters  cannot  quench  love. 

Sunday — that  never-to-be-forgotten  Sunday,  that 
seemed  like  the  climax  of  the  girl's  shame,  when  to  her 
horror  she  had  found  the  Spawer  in  his  pew  beneath  her ; 
bless  Heaven  for  the  timely  storm  that  kept  them  apart— 
Sunday  came  and  went. 

Monday  replaced  it ;  a  promiseful,  rainless  day.  All  the 
sky  was  heaped  up  with  great  broken  masses  of  cloud 
from  yesterday's  storm,  that  a  persistent  warm  breeze 
swept  over  the  cliff  edge  and  across  the  sea,  in  ceaseless 
waves  of  sunlight  and  shadow.  Throughout  the  day  fig- 
ures were  moving  about  the  fields,  turning  the  limp  and 
soddened  sheaves  to  catch  the  wind.  Still  the  breeze 


362  THE  POST- GIRL 

blew,  and  the  countless  host  of  clouds— like  another  Ex- 
odus of  the  Children  of  Israel— passed  steadily  over  the 
land  from  the  west  to  the  east;  to  the  brink  of  the  sea 
and  beyond.  By  evening  they  were  nearly  all  gone  over. 
Only  detached  bands  of  them  here  and  there  rode  up  si- 
lently from  the  great  west,  as  though  they  had  been 
horsemen  of  a  rear  guard,  and  moved  slowly  across  the 
sky  in  the  wake  of  that  mighty  passage.  And  as  the  last 
of  these  departed,  the  sun,  like  a  great  priest  garbed  in 
glorious  gold  vestments,  rose  to  his  height  on  the  far 
horizon  with  arms  extended  to  Heaven,  and  pronounced 
a  benediction  over  the  land. 

Rest  in  peace  now,  oh,  Ullbrig  farmers !  Have  no  fear, 
oh,  faint-hearted  tillers  of  the  soil !  Rejoice,  ye  harvest- 
ers, for  the  Lord  God  of  the  harvest-field  is  come  into  His 
own  again.  The  corn  shall  ripen  in  the  ear ;  there  shall 
be  reaping,  binding,  and  gleaning,  and  an  abundant  re- 
turn for  all  your  labors. 

That  same  night,  while  the  land  lay  still  under  the  sa- 
cred hush  of  that  benediction,  in  the  little  front  parlor, 
all  flushed  glorious  with  the  exultation  of  the  sun's  mes- 
sage, the  schoolmaster  returned  to  Pam  what,  on  just 
such  as  evening  as  this — millions  of  ages  ago,  in  some  re- 
mote epoch  of  the  world's  history— he  had  taken  from 
her. 

Not  a  word  accompanied  the  restoration.  In  silence 
the  girl's  hand  went  forth— with  not  even  her  own  eyes 
watching  its  shameful  errand — to  meet  it  and  receive 
that  precious,  hateful  pawn  that  she  was  redeeming  with 
her  body.  For  some  seconds  they  stood,  maintaining 
their  respective  attitudes  in  that  surreptitious  transfer; 
the  man  with  bent  head  and  averted  gaze  as  he  had 


THE  POST-GIRL  363 

given;  the  girl  with  high,  rebellious  bosom  for  a  great 
grief,  and  her  chin  shrinking  in  the  nest  of  it,  while  the 
recipient  hand  at  the  back  of  her  worked  slowly  down- 
ward in  the  depths  of  her  skirt-pocket. 

Then  suddenly,  before  the  man  had  time  to  realise  or 
utter  the  words  his  mind  was  slowly  coining,  the  girl's 
high  breast  fell  in  the  convulsion  of  silent  sobs.  With 
both  hands  pressed  to  her  cheeks,  and  the  tears  stream- 
ing fast  through  her  spread  fingers,  she  brushed 
abruptly  by  him. 

At  the  door,  for  he  had  something  to  say,  he  spoke 
her  name  and  laid  a  restraining  hand  upon  her  shoulder, 
but  she  shook  it  off  with  the  hateful  shudder  for  a  ser- 
pent, and  passed  swiftly  from  him  up  the  Sunday  stair- 
case. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

LL  throughout  the  rest  of  that  evening  the  school- 
master  had  employment  in  guarding  Pam's  bed- 
room door.  At  times,  drawing  long  breaths  to  suffocate 
his  beating  heart,  he  listened  at  its  keyhole,  applied  his 
eye  even,  pressed  his  hot  face  flat  against  the  woodwork, 
and  strove  to  elicit  some  filterings,  however  attenuated, 
of  its  occupant  and  her  concerns. 

But  the  door  was  as  uncommunicative  as  a  grave- 
stone. Had  he  not  seen  the  girl  go  in,  and  heard  her 
close  the  lock  upon  her  entombment,  he  would  have 
been  sick  with  apprehension  and  doubt;  ready  to  believe 
that  she  had  eluded  him,  and  that  he  had  lost  her.  More 
than  once,  as  it  was,  he  tapped  at  the  door,  but  no  re- 
sponse came  to  him,  and  he  was  fearful  to  intensify  the 
summons  lest  he  might  betray  his  presence  to  those 
downstairs,  and  bring  about  an  enforced  relinquishment 
of  his  watch. 

Evening  gave  place  to  night,  and  the  yellow  harvest 
moon  arose.  Sounds  of  supper  things  stirring  and 
searches  after  Pam  drove  him  from  the  landing  into  his 
bedroom.  Emma  Morland,  less  timorous  of  knuckle 
than  he,  and  less  furtive  of  intention,  came  boldly  up  the 
staircase,  calling  Pam's  name,  and  rapped— after  finding 
the  door  locked — a  peremptory  summons  upon  its  in- 
mate. 

"Come;  what  'a  ye  gotten  door  fast  for?"  he  heard 

364 


THE  POST-GIRL  365 

her  demand  of  the  languid  voice  of  response  that  had 
raised  itself  faintly  at  the  summons,  like  a  wounded 
bird.  "Is  n't  it  about  time  ye  came  doon  an'  gied  a  'and 
wi'  supper  things?  Ah  've  yon  blouse  to  finish  by  to- 
neet,  think  on."  • 

Then  the  wounded  voice  stirred  itself  wearily  again. 

"What!  another?"  Emma  Morland  cried,  with  more 
of  resentment  in  her  tones  than  sympathy.  "That  meks 
second  ye  've  'ad  i'  t'  week.  Ye  nivver  used  to  'ave  'em. 
What  's  comin'  tiv  ye  ?" 

"Well!  ah  declare!"  she  exclaimed,  after  further  par- 
ley of  an  apparently  incomprehensible  and  unsatisfac- 
tory nature.  "It  's  a  rum  un  when  a  lass  like  you  starts 
tekkin'  tiv  'er  bed,  'at  's  nivver  knowed  a  day's  illness  in 
'er  life !  There  mun  be  seummut  wrong  wi'  ye,  ah  think 
— a  decline,  or  seummut  o'  t'  sort.  We  s'll  'a  to  be 
fetchin'  doctor  tiv  ye,  gen  ye  get  onny  wuss.  Will  ye  let 
me  mek  ye  some  bread-an'-milk ?  Some  gruel,  then? 
Some  tawst  an'  tea?  Ye  weean't?  Ye  're  sure  .  .  . 
noo?  Well,  then;  it  's  no  use.  Ah  've  done  my  best. 
Qood-neet  tiv  ye,  an'  ah  'ope  ye  '11  be  better  i'  t'  morn. 
Don't  trouble  aboot  gettin'  up  no  sooner  nor  ye  feel  fit. 
'Appen  ye  '11  sleep  it  off." 

So  she  was  safe  in  bed,  then.  Through  the  sorrow 
his  love  felt  at  the  unhappiness  in  which  it  had  involved 
the  girl — for  love  it  was — nothing  short  of  love,  and 
great  love  at  that,  could  have  moved  this  nervous,  self- 
secluded  man  to  such  courageous  acts  of  infamy — he 
drew  relieved  breath  at  the  intelligence.  Now  he  could 
relinquish  the  closeness  of  his  vigil  without  fear. 

He  would  have  followed  Emma  Morland  down  the 
staircase  with  less  ease  of  mind,  perhaps,  could  he  have 


366  THE  POST- GIRL 

seen  the  dressed  figure  of  the  girl,  curled  up  on  the  quilt, 
with  her  face  plunged  in  the  pillows ;  and  been  able  to 
follow  the  fevered  hurry  ings  of  her  thought.  For  the 
languid,  wing-wounded  voice  he  had  heard  was  but  a  lie, 
like  all  the  rest  of  her  in  these  days.  It  was  no  head- 
ache she  had— heartache,  if  you  like— but  no  headache. 
What  her  seclusion  sought  was  thought,  not  oblivion ; 
action,  not  restfulness. 

With  the  letter  back  at  her  breast  again,  all  was  un- 
done once  more.  The  door  of  the  last  few  days  seemed 
opened,  as  with  a  key.  With  this  restored  to  her,  and 
in  her  arms,  all  her  courage  came  back ;  all  her  old  stead- 
fastness and  fortitude;  the  blinded  eyes  of  her  spirit 
seemed  opened.  This  very  night,  while  the  household 
slept,  she  should  steal  forth — as  she  had  stolen  forth  in 
that  first  early  dawn  of  her  happiness— and  make  resti- 
tution of  the  letter.  Under  the  door  by  the  porch,  or  in 
at  that  familiar  window— if  only  it  were  left  unfastened 
— she  should  slip  it.  And  with  this  letter  must  go  a  sec- 
ond—that she  would  write— making  full  confession  of 
the  offence,  and  humbling  herself  before  him  for  his 
pardon  and  forgiveness.  No  longer  did  she  desire  to  be 
clad  in  his  presence  with  the  garments  of  hypocrisy.  Let 
him  look  upon  her  in  the  nakedness  of  her  sin,  for  her 
soul's  true  chastening.  Let  nothing  be  hid  from  him. 
Rather  now  his  proper  scorn  and  loathing  than  his  ill- 
gotten  favor,  as  her  unrighteousness  had  once  sought  to 
retain  it.  For  his  favor  was  no  more  hers,  at  this  time, 
than  the  letter  she  held.  Both  had  been  gained  by  hy- 
pocrisy and  fraud.  Both  must  be  restituted  for  the 
completion  of  her  atonement. 

And  then  her  soul,  walking  forward  with  face  glori- 


THE  POST-GIRL  367 

ous,  saw  the  atonement  done  .  .  .  and  passed  beyond 
.  .  .  and  stopped. 

After  the  atonement.  .  .  .  What? 

Lord  have  mercy  on  her !    What  ? 

Should  she  come  back  to  this  house,  return  to  this  bed, 
go  on  living  this  life  of  shame  and  dishonor,  give  herself 
ultimately  into  the  arms  of  this  man?  Should  she  cele- 
brate the  sacrament  of  atonement  this  night,  only  to  enter 
upon  a  fresh  course  of  unrighteousness  to-morrow? 

Oh,  no,  no,  no !  She  could  not.  A  thousand  times 
no !  She  could  not. 

By  fraud  he  had  got  her.  By  cruelty  he  had  broken 
her  resistance.  If  she  were  going  to  pay  openly  for  her 
sin,  by  just  atonement  before  the  proper  tribunal,  why 
need  she  pay  a  hundredfold  in  secret  to  this  unrighteous 
extortioner?  What  she  had  undertaken  to  do  she  had 
done.  She  had  bound  herself  by  no  promises,  for  he 
would  not  accept  them  from  her.  She  had  tied  herself 
to  him  publicly,  and  pleaded  with  Father  Mostyn  as 
though  she  had  been  pleading  for  her  life's  blood;  had 
submitted  to  the  degradation  of  this  man's  authority 
.  .  .  only  for  the  letter  that  she  held.  Rather  than  give 
herself  up  to  him  she  would  cast  herself  over  the  cliff 
and  seek  refuge  in  death. 

And  so  thought  ran  on  with  her,  and  the  further  it 
traveled  the  further  it  seemed  to  take  her  away  from  the 
scene  of  her  guilt  and  the  man  who  had  wronged  her. 

Yes,  slowly  but  surely— as  though,  all  along,  it  had 
been  aware  of  its  destination,  and  kept  it  only  from  the 
girl  herself— her  mind,  traveling  over  its  miles  and 
miles  of  railed  purpose,  arrived  at  this  dark  terminus. 
She  would  go. 


368  THE  POST-GIRL 

She  wept  when  she  saw  at  last  where  it  was  she  must 
alight,  and  said  good-by  to  herself  as  to  a  dear  friend. 
But  the  parting  was  inevitable,  and  weeping,  she  bowed 
to  it.  To  pour  new  wine  of  life  into  this  old  burst  bottle 
of  hers,  how  could  she?  Without  open  proclamation  of 
the  truth,  her  life  in  Ullbrig  would  but  be  days  and 
hours  and  minutes  of  wicked,  unbearable  deception. 
But  in  a  new  place,  away  from  the  old  sin  and  the  old 
temptation,  she  might  better  succeed.  She  could  never 
be  happy  again ;  that  she  knew.  Happiness  was  gone 
from  her  for  ever,  but  she  could  be  good.  Goodness 
should  be  her  adopted  child,  in  place  of  the  one  she  had 
lost.  The  Spawer  was  good;  like  him  she  would  try — 
oh,  how  patiently — to  be. 

Maddest  of  madness.  The  girl  thought  she  was  ar- 
riving at  it  all  by  processes  of  reason;  she  was  merely 
delirious.  Grief  had  been  a  five-days'  fever  with  her, 
and  this  was  the  crisis.  But  there  were  no  kind  hearts 
to  understand  her  sickness;  no  gentle  hands  to  restrain 
her.  Delirium,  that  she  took  to  be  reason,  dictated 
"Go,"  and  she  was  going. 

Vague  dreams  of  vague  work  in  vague  towns  blew 
through  her  comprehension,  like  drifting  mists  from  the 
sea.  She  would  go  here ;  she  would  go  there ;  she  would 
get  work  as  a  dressmaker ;  as  a  cook ;  as  a  clerk  in  some 
other  post  office ;  as  a  secretary  ...  as  God  knows  what. 

Night  drew  on  as  she  fashioned  her  plans.  One  by 
one  the  familiar  sounds  acquainted  her  exactly  with  the 
progress  of  it.  In  the  darkness  of  her  pillow,  before 
the  moon  got  round  to  her  window,  she  needed  no  clock. 
She  heard  the  clatter  of  pottery;  "good-nights"  ex- 
changed in  the  kitchen ;  creaking  of  the  twisted  staircase 


THE  POST-GIRL  369 

to  the  postmaster's  stockinged  feet,  with  the  hollow 
bump  of  his  hands  as  he  steadied  his  ascent;  the  amia- 
ble gasping  of  Mrs.  Morland,  gathering  up  her  forepetti- 
coats  and  laboring  in  the  wake  of  her  husband's  ascent; 
the  unutterable  sound  of  the  schoolmaster's  footsteps, 
that  sent  pangs  through  her,  each  one,  as  though  he 
were  treading  all  the  way  on  her  heart;  the  cruel  catch 
of  his  bedroom  door,  so  hard,  remorseless,  and  sinister. 
In  such  wise  he  had  shut  the  door  of  his  compassion  on 
her  soul's  fingers,  and  heeded  not.  And  last  of  all, 
the  sounds  of  bolts  shot  beneath ;  journeyings  of  Emma 
to  and  fro  between  the  two  kitchens.  Now  she  would 
be  extinguishing  the  lamp;  now  she  would  be  lighting 
her  candle;  now  she  would  be  putting  the  kitchen  lamp 
back  for  safety  on  the  dresser  by  the  wall;  now  she 
would  be  coming  upstairs  ...  ah!  here  she  came.  The 
flickers  of  her  candle  winked  momentarily  in  the  keyhole 
of  Pam's  door,  as  though  she  were  listening  at  the  head 
of  the  staircase  to  gather  assurance  of  her  sound  repose. 
Then  the  keyhole  closed  its  blinking  eye,  and  there  en- 
sued the  click  of  Emma's  own  latch. 

At  that  last  culminating  sound,  Pam's  heart  turned 
palpitatingly  within  her,  part  exultant,  part  terrified; 
seemed  almost  to  come  into  her  mouth  like  a  solid  ma- 
terialised sob.  Now  all  the  path  was  clear.  Its  clear- 
ness dismayed  her.  Soon  slumber  would  prevail  over 
the  post-house,  and  act  sentinel  to  her  purpose.  But 
though  purpose,  standing  like  a  bather  by  the  brink  of 
wintry  waters,  shivered  at  the  prospect  of  immersion- 
yet  did  not  falter.  Purpose  had  vowed  to  go,  and  pur- 
pose was  going.  Another  hour  the  girl  kept  stillness 
upon  her  bed,  and  the  half  of  an  hour  after  that,  listen- 

24 


370  THE  POST- GIRL 

ing  until  the  rhythmic  ronflement  of  the  postmaster's 
snore  was  established,  and  the  intervals  between  that 
horrible  menaceful  cough— short  at  first— had  spaced 
themselves  out  into  ultimate  silence.  Then  from  her 
bed  she  rose. 

Stealthily,  seated  on  the  side  of  it,  she  unlaced  her 
shoes  and  laid  them  on  the  quilt,  that  her  feet  might  be 
noiseless  upon  the  floor.  Then,  letting  the  weight  of  her 
body  slide  gradually  on  to  'the  rug  by  the  side  of  her 
bed,  she  moved  forward,  balancing  with  outstretched 
hands.  The  clear  beams  of  the  moon  filled  her  white  bed- 
room by  this  time,  as  though  it  were  day.  And  now  that 
the  actual  moment  of  flight  was  upon  her,  its  keen,  con- 
stricted space  in  eternity  acted  like  a  pin-hole  lens,  through 
which,  magnified,  she  saw  the  difficulties  of  her  task. 

What,  in  the  nature  of  personalty,  should  go  with 
her?  She  would  have  need  of  her  bath,  of  her  big 
sponge,  of  her  toothbrushes,  of  her  dentifrice  and  pow- 
der, of  her  brushes  and  comb,  of  her  night-gowns,  of 
her  dressing-gown,  of  changes  of  underlinen,  of  her 
blouses,  of  her  best  dress,  of  her  Sunday  shoes,  of  her 
walking-boots,  of  pocket-handkerchiefs  .  .  .  these  only 
concerning  her  toilette. 

And  she  would  have  need  of  her  mother's  books,  and 
her  own  little  library;  her  own  little  stock  of  French 
grammars  and  easy  reading  books ;  the  music  that  he  had 
given  her  .  .  .  heaps  and  heaps  of  precious,  inconsider- 
able gifts  and  souvenirs  that  in  this  hour  of  severance  her 
soul  clung  to  tenaciously,  as  to  dear,  human  fingers. 

Alas!  of  such  latter,  it  seemed,  she  had  none  to  cling 
to. 

But  all  these  things  she  could  not  convey  with  her. 


THE  POST-GIRL  371 

Flight  could  not  hamper  itself  with  baths  and  books,  and 
boots  and  blouses.  All  that  hindered  it  must  be  cast 
aside.  And  these  things  ...  the  only  trifling  land- 
marks in  life  to  remind  her  who  she  was,  and  what  small 
place  she  held  in  the  great  waste  of  existence  .  .  .  these 
must  be  cast  aside  too. 

These  must  be  cast  aside ! 

What  a  severance! 

How  would  her  soul  know  itself  without  these  famil- 
iar tokens?  Without  these,  without  Ullbrig,  away  in 
strange  places,  in  strange  surroundings,  she  might  be 
anybody.  She  was  no  longer  Pam.  She  was  simply  a 
life  .  .  .  an  eating  and  a  drinking;  a  sleeping  and  a 
waking.  She  wept. 

Stealthily  withal,  but  bitterly,  and  without  any  abate- 
ment of  her  purpose,  like  a  child  weeping  its  way  to 
school,  that  never  dreams  of  contesting  the  destiny  that 
drives  it  there. 

Yes ;  all  these  dear  things  of  her  affection  must  be  left 
behind.  For  the  present,  at  least.  But  they  were  not 
robbers  in  this  house ;  they  were  honest  people,  who  had 
loved  her  in  the  past,  and  been  kind  to  her.  They  would 
guard  these  things  for  her,  and  if  some  day  she  wrote  to 
them  and  asked  as  much,  they  would  cede  them  to  her 
without  demur.  Only  what  she  positively  needed  must 
she  take  with  her.  A  night-dress,  her  tooth-brushes,  her 
sponge  (that,  at  least,  would  squeeze  up),  a  collar  or 
two,  some  stockings,  one  change  of  linen,  one  brush  and 
comb,  one  extra  pair  of  shoes.  Just  such  a  parcel  as 
she  could  carry  without  causing  too  much  fatigue  to  her- 
self, or  too  much  comment  from  others.  And  she  would 
need  money. 


372  THE  POST-GIRL 

How  much  had  she? 

In  her  purse  she  had  four  shillings,  sixpence,  and  cop- 
pers; in  the  pocket  of  her  old  serge  skirt,  three  half- 
pence. Five  shillings  odd  to  face  the  world  with.  Oh, 
it  was  very  little ! 

But  in  an  old  chocolate-box  she  had  one  pound  ten 
shillings  in  gold,  and  a  fat  five-shilling  piece— all  her  re- 
cent savings;  the  proceeds  of  little  works  for  his  Rever- 
ence, and  dressmaking  assistance  for  Emma.  From  var- 
ious parts  of  her  bedroom,  she  gathered  all  the  items  nec- 
essary for  her  outfit  and  essayed  upon  her  most  terrible 
enterprise  of  all— the  descent  of  the  staircase. 

Slowly,  slowly,  slowly  .  .  .  oh,  agonisingly  slowly 
.  .  .  she  turned  the  handle  of  her  door  and  opened  it 
upon  its  hinges.  In  those  early  days  she  had  done  this 
same  thing — with  trepidation,  indeed,  and  compression 
of  lip — but  never  with  the  blanched  horror  of  to-night. 
To  stumble  how,  or  betray  herself;  to  arouse  the  house 
to  her  flight,  and  be  caught  disgracefully  in  the  act — 
with  nothing  but  shame  and  exposure  as  recompense  for 
her  anguish — that  must  not  be.  And  yet  all  the  boards 
cried  out  upon  her,  sprang  up,  as  though  she  had  startled 
them  sleeping,  and  called:  "Pam!  Pam!  What!  is  it 
you?  Where  are  you  going,  Pam?"  And  she  dared  not 
hush  them. 

And  the  wooden  walls,  when  she  laid  a  guiding  hand 
upon  them,  rocked  and  yielded  to  her  weight;  it  seemed 
they  must  inevitably  shake  the  sleepers  on  their  beds. 
And  the  stairs— treacherous  stairs— each  one  of  them 
tried  to  betray  her ;  promised  fair  to  her  foot,  and  called 
out  when  she  confided  to  them  her  body:  "Noo  then; 
noo  then !  where  's  ti  gannin'  to  this  time  o'  neet  ?  Mes- 


THE  POST-GIRL  373 

ter  Morland !  Master  Frewin !  y'  ought  to  be  stirrin'  alive 
noo!  There  's  this  lass  o'  yours  away  seumweers  wi'  a 
bundle  o'  claws  [clothes]."  Oh,  the  slow  sickness  of  it; 
step  by  step,  foot  by  foot,  stop  by  stop,  rigid  as  a  statue, 
cold  of  heart  as  of  clay,  burning  of  head,  tingling  of  ears. 
But  at  last  her  feet  found  the  friendly  kitchen  mat,  solid 
on  the  red-tiled  floor. 

Long,  standing  there,  she  listened,  panting  and  sifting 
the  overhead  silence  for  the  slightest  sound  that  might 
betide  discovery  of  her  flight.  But  none  could  she  catch, 
though  the  meshes  of  her  hearing  were  drawn  painfully 
fine.  The  worst  of  her  task  was  over.  Now  were  only 
a  few  concluding  things  to  do  ...  and  then  the  going. 

The  moon  filled  the  little  clean  kitchen  and  the  kitchen 
parlor— all  this  back  part  of  the  house,  indeed — with  its 
great  white  beams,  as  it  had  filled  her  bedroom  upstairs, 
and  gave  her  no  need  of  lamp  or  candle.  Speedily  mov- 
ing over  the  red  tiles  in  her  noiseless  stockinged  feet,  she 
acquired  her  few  remaining  necessaries  from  drawer  and 
cupboard,  made  up  her  effects  into  as  neat  a  parcel  as  they 
would  let  her,  put  on  her  old,  faded,  blue  Tam-o'-Shan- 
ter,  laid  her  brown  mackintosh  ulster  on  the  dresser,  and 
got  ready  her  thick-soled  walking  shoes.  Now  she  had 
only  a  little  writing  to  do,  and  she  could  be  gone.  First 
of  all,  with  her  tears  intermittently  running,  she  must 
write  her  letter  to  Him.  And  she  must  write  also  to 
Emma  Morland.  And  a  line  must  be  left  for  the  post- 
master, and  one  for  Mrs.  Morland,  and  a  farewell  to  the 
man  upstairs,  who  had  wrought  this  havoc  with  her  life. 
And  Father  Mostyn  ...  he  must  not  be  left  in  ignor- 
ance. And  James  Maskill  too  .  .  .  poor  hallowed  James, 
who  looked  so  sadly  at  her  in  these  days;  and  Ginger. 


374  THE  POST-GIRL 

At  this  sad  hour  of  her  parting,  her  heart  wished  to  make 
its  peace  with  all  against  whom  it  had  offended;  all  that 
had  offended  it;  all  that  had  showed  it  kindness.  To  ev- 
erybody that  had  given  her  a  good  word  or  a  bad  she  felt 
the  desire  to  leave  a  little  epistolary  farewell.  But  she 
could  not  write  to  them  all  now.  Later,  perhaps.  To  do 
so  would  be  to  keep  her  hand  at  work  with  the  pen  till 
daybreak,  and  now  every  moment  was  of  importance. 
Ullbrig  would  be  early  abroad  to-morrow.  Eyes  would 
be  scanning  the  earth  from  every  quarter  long  before 
sunrise.  Not  the  most  that  her  heart  wished  to  do  now, 
but  the  least,  for  her  purpose,  that  it  might,  must  be  her 
rule.  She  would  write  to  the  Spawer ;  he,  at  least,  must 
be  written  to.  And  to  Father  Mostyn,  and  to  the  school- 
master, and  a  word  to  Emma. 

So  deciding,  she  got  pen  and  paper  and  ink,  and  set 
herself  to  this  final  task  in  the  broad  white  band  of 
moonlight  over  the  window  table. 

With  writhings,  with  fresh  tears,  with  bitings  of  the 
pen,  with  painful  defections  of  attention  to  the  regions 
upstairs,  in  the  flood  of  clarid  moonlight,  she  coped  with 
her  labor.  But  at  last  that  too,  like  all  suffering  in  the 
world,  had  an  end.  The  letter  was  written  and  sealed. 
And  next,  more  fluently,  was  penned  the  epistle  for  his 
Reverence;  and  succeeding  that,  her  farewell  to  the 
schoolmaster;  and  her  sorrowing  penitence  to  Emma. 
The  first  two  she  gathered  to  herself ;  the  second  two  she 
left,  displayed  on  the  table,  to  be  found  of  their  respective 
addressees  in  the  morning. 

And  now  she  was  on  the  brink  of  departure.  All  her 
work  in  this  house  had  been  accomplished  except  the 
mere  leaving  of  it.  She  had  looked  upon  this  as  easy,  by 


THE  POST-GIRL  375 

comparison,  but  how  truly  hard  it  was.  Dear  little  kitchen, 
that  swam  away  from  her  eyes  as  she  gazed  upon 
it— like  a  running  stream  under  the  moonlight.  So  the 
glad  current  of  her  past  was  racing  from  her.  Dear  little 
blurred  dresser— friend  of  hers  from  her  childhood  up- 
ward. She  stooped  her  lips  to  it  on  an  impulse,  and 
kissed  its  hard,  scarred  cheek  again  and  again,  in  one  last 
sacred  farewell.  Never  more,  perhaps,  should  her  eyes 
rest  upon  it.  Dear  little  warm-hearted  oven,  that  had 
done  her  so  many  good  turns  in  the  past.  Sometimes, 
perhaps,  it  might  have  been  a  little  too  short  with  her 
tarts,  and  a  shade  crusty  with  her  pies — a  little  hot-tem- 
pered with  herself  even,  but  that  was  nothing.  What 
were  its  faults  by  the  side  of  hers !  She  held  its  round, 
bright  knob  in  a  lingering  grasp.  "Good-by,  little  oven. 
.  .  .  Oh,  little  oven,  good-by !  Do  your  duty  better  than 
I  have  done  mine  .  .  .  and  take  profit  by  me.  Be  kind  to 
Emma  .  .  .  and  Mrs.  Morland  .  .  .  for  my  sake  .  .  . 
and  brown  your  very  best." 

And  to  the  little  fender  also,  her  soul  said  good-by; 
and  to  the  lamp  that  had  lighted  so  many  nights  of  her 
happiness  in  the  great  agone ;  and  to  the  brass  boiler  tap ; 
and  to  the  warming-pan.  All  over  the  house  she  would 
have  liked  to  wander,  raining  her  mild,  sorrowful  tears 
.  .  .  and  saying  her  spiritual  good-by s  to  these  dear,  in- 
animate friends  of  her  vanished  happiness;  but  it  might 
not  be.  Into  her  mackintosh  she  stole  at  length— that 
rustled  like  marsh  flags,  for  all  her  care— slipped  on  her 
shoes,  gathered  up  her  parcel,  and  passed  out  of  the  kit- 
chen on  cautious  tip-toe.  But  a  few  more  moments  and 
she  had  renounced  the  comfortable  roof  of  red  tiles  that 
had  made  so  pleasant  a  shelter  over  her  head  these  years 


376  THE  POST-GIRL 

past.  Now  there  intervened  no  shield  between  that  dear 
head  and  the  stern,  starry  sky;  so  severely  calm  and 
clear  and  dispassionate.  No  hope  from  there,  dear  child, 
though  you  lift  your  lips  to  it  and  invoke  its  mercies. 
Others  too,  as  tender — though  not  more  fair — have  con- 
fided themselves  so,  and  sunk  in  the  great  world's  ocean 
beneath  these  self-same  stars.  ' 

And  thus,  with  one  long,  drenched,  searching  gaze  of 
tears,  sideways  up  the  wall  of  the  house  that  had  held  her, 
good-night  and  good-by! 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

schoolmaster,  never  a  sound  sleeper  at  the  best  of 
times,  this  night  slept  his  worst.  Being  but  a  novice 
in  practical  iniquity,  and  lacking  yet  the  reposeful  assur- 
ance that  lulls  the  veteran  evil-doer  upon  his  pillow,  and 
gives  him  slumber  unknown  of  the  godly,  who  have  con- 
sciences to  lie  upon  their  breast  like  lobster,  he  tossed 
hotly  between  his  sheets.  Sleep  came  to  him,  indeed,  but 
it  was  a  troubled  sleep,  .blown  across  his  mind's  sky  in 
fitful  patches,  like  the  clouds  that  had  scudded  seawards 
over  the  land  this  day,  and  gave  him  no  repose. 

Thoughts,  like  teetotums,  spun  too  fast  for  the  mind's 
eye  to  recognise  the  figures  on  them.  But  always  the 
basis  of  his  delirium  was  Pam ;  the  ceaseless  desire  of  her 
possession;  his  love  of  her;  his  remorse  of  the  evil  that 
had  been  done  to  get  her ;  her  horror  of  him  that  his  act 
had  inspired  in  her;  wild  resolutions  to  atone  to  the  girl 
for  his  past  iniquity  by  his  future  dedication  to  her  wor- 
ship ;  to  justify  the  means  by  the  end,  and  make  her  bless 
him  at  last  for  the  sin  that  had  brought  them  together. 

So  his  mind  was  spinning  on  its  unchecked  dizzy  orbit 
in  space  through  the  hours,  like  a  star  through  the  cen- 
turies, when  all  at  once,  with  a  shock  that  shuddered  him 
from  head  to  foot,  some  unseen  power  arrested  its  flight 
as  with  an  omnipotent  hand,  and  left  him  wide-eyed  and 
wakeful  on  his  bed ;  no  star  at  all  now,  but  the  bed-bound, 
trembling  body  of  a  man,  filled  with  sudden  fear  and 
apprehension. 

377 


378  THE  POST- GIRL 

What  had  happened  ?  Had  his  being  just  wrested  itself 
from  the  bonds  of  a  horrid  nightmare?  Had  he  been 
dreaming  or  thinking  when  the  shock  came?  He  could 
remember  nothing,  whether  it  had  been  dream  or  reflec- 
tion, to  which  he  could  attribute  the  alert  horror  of  this 
moment.  It  had  dropped  upon  him  from  somewhere 
without  himself ;  as  though  it  had  been  a  mighty,  sound- 
less peal  of  thunder,  shaking  his  soul  to  its  foundations. 
His  thoughts  he  could  recall  with  equanimity ;  there  was 
nothing  in  them  to  cause  him  fear— and  still  fear  filled 
him,  the  more  greatly  for  having  not  form  nor  expression. 
Fear,  or  apprehension,  filled  him  to  such  extent  that  the 
cold,  tingling  fingers  of  terror  crept  up  his  scalp,  from 
neck  to  forehead,  brushing  all  his  hairs  the  wrong  way; 
and  a  great,  boiling  sweat  burst  out  next  moment  upon 
his  face  and  body.  So  men  have  been  made  aware  at 
times  of  the  doings  of  death,  and  the  schoolmaster,  re- 
calling cases  of  the  kind,  drew  himself  up  palpitatingly 
in  his  bed.  On  the  cane-bottomed  chair  by  the  head  of 
it,  it  was  his  nightly  custom  to  set  his  candle,  which  he 
thus  extinguished,  with  a  hand  thrust  out  from  between 
the  sheets.  Thrusting  out  the  same  hand  now,  he  pos- 
sessed himself,  in  agitated  haste,  of  the  match-box,  struck 
nervously  for  a  light  with  the  match's  unphosphorused 
end,  and  with  the  red  tip  of  phosphorus  on  the  unsand- 
papered  side  of  the  box ;  and  lastly,  after  much  work  of 
the  sort,  drew  into  existence  a  fitful,  wavering  flame,  that 
died  in  giving  light  to  the  candle.  Then  he  pulled  forth 
his  watch  by  its  chain  from  under  the  pillow,  and  holding 
it  out  from  him,  fixed  a  disturbed  eye  upon  its  face. 
Half-past  twelve. 

Half -past  twelve !  No  more  than  that !  Ages  he 
seemed  to  have  been  battling  with  the  fever  of  thought. 


THE  POST-GIRL  379 

Could  the  watch  be  true?  He  pressed  it  to  his  ear,  and 
heard  the  active  click-click,  click-click  heart  go  beating 
in  its  busy  little  body.  It  had  not  stopped  then.  It  spoke 
the  truth. 

He  replaced  it  under  the  pillow,  and  remained  drawn 
up  in  bed,  with  both  arms  outstretched  on  the  coverlet,  as 
though  debating  action— though  what  to  do,  or  what 
might  be  supposed  to  be  required  of  him,  he  knew  not. 
His  heart,  thumping  against  his  ribs,  gave  abundant  evi- 
dence that  he  had  been  rudely  roused— if  otherwise  he 
had  had  any  inclination  to  doubt.  And  there  was  the  re- 
laxed weakness  about  his  legs,  too,  and  his  limp  arms, 
that  bore  witness  to  the  sharpness  of  the  shock.  Had 
the  shock  come  upon  him  standing,  his  first  instinct  would 
have  led  him  to  sit  down.  Over  and  over  in  his  mind  he 
kept  turning  this  awakening  like  a  strange,  unknown  coin, 
seeking  to  find  some  decipherable  superscription  upon  it, 
and  learn  what  it  might  presage.  It  had  come  upon  him 
suddenly.  It  was  like  to  a  clap  of  thunder  without  noise ; 
the  boom  of  a  gun;  the  slam  of  a  door.  Something 
whose  sound  he  had  not  heard,  but  whose  shock  had 
stirred  him.  Yet  all  he  could  think  of  was  death.  Some- 
body was  dead;  somebody  was  dying;  somebody  was 
going  to  die.  To  such  extent  did  the  idea  of  death  pos- 
sess him  that  it  seemed  to  expire  from  him  like  a  mighty 
stream,  whose  fount  was  in  his  brain.  The  whole  room 
was  filled  with  the  awesome  presence  of  it.  Death  was 
at  the  bed-foot;  at  the  window  curtain;  shrouded  the 
candle.  And  then,  of  a  sudden,  thoughts  of  death  and 
thoughts  of  the  girl,  circling  round  each  other,  came  into 
horrible  collision,  and  commingled,  and  lo !  death  and  the 
girl  were  one. 

In  his  guilty  state  of  mind,  he  was  an  easy  prey  for 


380  THE  POST-GIRL 

terror.  He  tried  to  rid  himself  of  the  idea  with  a  hundred 
assurances  drawn  from  pure  reason.  How  could  she  be 
dead?  She  had  never  died  before  .  .  .  why  should  she 
die  now?  She  was  sleeping  safely  in  her  own  bed,  not 
four  yards  from  him.  Draw  a  bee-line  through  the  wall 
at  his  head,  through  the  landing  beyond,  and  through  the 
wall  of  the  girl's  room,  and  there  she  should  surely  be. 
Only  last  night  he  had  been  speaking  to  her ;  hardly  more 
than  four  hours  ago  he  had  heard  her  voice.  Death  could 
not  have  come  to  her  so  soon.  The  idea  was  nonsense. 
But  like  a  child,  terrorised  by  things  unseen,  that  the 
wisdom  of  grown-up  logic  cannot  pacify,  the  more  he 
reasoned  the  more  his  unreasonment  grew.  For  all  this 
ill-gotten  authority  over  her  that  he  had  been  wielding 
so  unmercifully  these  days  past  ...  to  what  might  it 
not  have  driven  her?  Desperately  he  listened — with  his 
face  turned  toward  the  wall — as  though  death  were  a 
thing  audible,  like  the  tick-tacking  of  the  big  clock  in  the 
passage  below.  But  the  tick-tacking  of  the  big  clock,  and 
the  irregular  thudding  of  his  own  heart,  and  the  long- 
drawn  snores  of  the  postmaster,  were  all  that  he  could 
hear.  This  trinity  of  sounds  hung  like  a  creaking  door 
before  his  hearing.  He  was  sensible  of  a  deep  and  deadly 
silence  beyond,  flowing  like  the  sea  of  eternity  ;  but  despite 
his  desperate  fishing,  he  could  draw  up  nothing  from  its 
depths.  Last  of  all,  wrought  to  the  supreme  pitch  of 
suspense,  he  threw  aside  his  coverings,  slid  from  the  bed, 
and  stole  across  the  room  towards  the  door — a  miserable 
figure  of  inquietude  in  his  thin,  bare  legs  and  short  schol- 
astic night-gown,  that  took  him  pathetically  somewhere 
by  the  bone  of  the  knee.  Again,  at  the  door  itself  he 
listened  for  a  while,  trying  to  cancel  those  three  intrusive 


THE  POST-GIRL  381 

factors— the  snore,  the  clock,  and  his  own  heart— and 
base  his  calculations  on  the  silence  beyond;  but  he  could 
not.  If  he  would  gain  any  reassurance  for  his  disquieted 
spirit,  he  must  go  forth  and  inquire  deeper  of  the  sur- 
rounding stillness  than  this. 

And  he  went  forth,  and  saw  the  moonlight  bathing  all 
the  landing  through  the  little  staircase  window  and  issue 
idly  in  a  pale,  phosphorescent  stream  round  the  three 
sides  of  the  girl's  part-opened  door. 

Like  a  wide-mouthed  statue  of  horror,  he  stood  marble 
in  the  white  moonlight  and  stared.  Her  door  was  open ; 
her  door  that  had  been  closed  and  locked  upon  her  last 
night  was  open  now— open  so  emptily  and  with  such  deso- 
lation, while  the  moonlight  flowed  placidly  through  it, 
like  sea-water  through  the  hollow  hulk  of  a  submerged 
vessel — that  it  seemed  as  if  never  it  could  have  held  the 
live,  blood- warmed  body  of  the  girl.  For  a  moment,  the 
shock  of  what  he  saw  was  twin  to  the  shock  of  what— 
so  short  a  while  back— he  had  failed  to  see.  Then  in  his 
little,  wasted  cotton  night-dress  and  his  bare  legs  as  he 
was,  he  started  forward  into  action,  pushed  open  the 
panels  unhesitatingly  with  his  fingers,  and  entered. 

All  to  itself  the  moonlight  possessed  the  room ;  filled  it 
from  floor  to  ceiling,  from  corner  to  corner.  There  was 
no  girl.  Her  bed  had  been  merely  laid  upon  from  the 
outside ;  .she  had  not  slept  in  it.  There  was  her  night- 
dress untouched  in  its  embroidered  case.  Except  for  the 
callous,  white  moonlight,  that  showed  him  these  things 
without  a  thought  for  his  anguish,  the  room  was  empty 
as  a  sieve.  The  girl  had  gone ;  gone  where  and  why  and 
when,  he  could  not  tell.  Whether  with  thoughts  of  death, 
or  thoughts  of  flight,  or  thoughts  of  treachery — he  could 


382  THE  POST-GIRL 

not  tell.  The  discovery  flew  to  his  head  like  the  vintage 
of  bitter  grapes.  He  searched  madly  about  the  room ; 
threw  up  the  white  valances  of  her  bed,  lest  perchance 
she  were  but  hiding  from  him ;  opened  her  cupboards  and 
beat  his  hands  wildly  among  the  darkness  of  skirts  and 
hanging  garments  for  some  clasp  of  fugitive  flesh  and 
blood;  part  shut  the  door  to  assure  himself  she  was  not 
lurking  behind  its  hinges,  with  her  face  in  her  hands  and 
her  forehead  against  the  wall. 

But  she  was  not.  He  knew  she  was  not  when  he 
searched.  She  was  gone  !  she  was  gone ! 

And  thence,  with  his  thin,  worn,  calico  lapels  blowing 
about  his  legs,  he  scurried  down  the  twisted  staircase  to 
see  what  the  lower  regions  had  to  show  him. 

As  soon  as  his  feet  flinched  on  the  bristles  of  the  fibre 
mat,  they  showed  him  all  that  they  had  to  show.  The 
two  letters  spread  out  side  by  side  on  the  window  table, 
white  as  driven  snow  in  the  moonlight.  It  needed  no 
slow  investigation  to  assure  him  what  they  were.  Grave- 
stones did  not  more  certainly  indicate  what  lay  beneath 
them  than  did  these  two  pallid  envelopes.  He  was  on 
them  at  once,  like  a  hawk.  "To  Mr.  Frewin,"  he  read 
on  the  first,  in  Pam's  neat,  well-known  script,  and  ripped 
it  open  regardlessly,  as  though  he  were  gutting  herrings. 
So  did  his  heart  beat  at  him  from  within,  and  so  did  his 
brain  contract  and  swell,  and  so  did  his  apprehensive  hand 
tremble,  that  for  some  seconds  the  piece  of  paper,  for  all 
the  words  he  distinguished  on  it,  might  have  been  a  white, 
waving  flag.  But  in  the  end  he  got  control  over  himself, 
and  wrested  the  girl's  last  message  to  him  from  the  paper 
on  which,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  it  was  scarcely  dry. 

"When  you  get  this  .  .  ."  he  read.    Ah!  that  familiar, 


THE  POST- GIRL  383 

time-worn  overture  for  stricken  messages  of  grief.  How 
many  miserables,  by  water-sides,  by  lone  lochs,  by  canals, 
reservoirs,  and  railways,  have  prefaced  their  journey  to 
eternity  with  these  four  words.  Scarcely  a  suicide  so  un- 
literary  that,  at  this  last  moment,  he  cannot  call  them  to 
his  aid  for  epitaph  to  his  misery.  As  soon  as  the  school- 
master read  them,  he  knew  all.  Death  or  departure  .  .  . 
this  was  the  end. 

".  .  .  When  you  get  this"  (he  read),  "I  shall  be  far 
away  from  Ullbrig,  and  you  will  know  why.  If  you  had 
done  differently  with  me,  I  might  have  done  differently 
with  you.  But  it  is  too  late  now  for  regrets.  After  the 
sin  you  have  forced  me  to  share  with  you,  I  could  never, 
never  love  you.  The  future  frightens  me.  For  all  you 
have  made  me  suffer  I  forgive  you  freely,  but  I  pray  God 
we  may  never  meet  again.  I  have  been  as  wicked  as  you, 
and  for  this  reason  I  dare  not  join  our  wickednesses,  for 
fear  of  where  they  may  lead  us.  Please  forgive  me  for 
the  things  in  which  I  have  sinned  against  you,  and  beg 
God  to  forgive  us  both  for  the  things  we  have  done 
against  Him.  Pray  for  me  too,  as  I  will  pray  for  you. 
Perhaps  your  life  may  be  all  the  brighter  and  better  for 
my  absence.  Strive  to  do  your  best  that  it  may  be  so; 
and  please  remember,  if  at  any  time  you  are  tempted  to 
think  hardly  upon  me,  that  I  am  not  angry  with  you,  and 
that  I  do  not  blame  you.  Good-by  for  ever.  PAM." 

That  was  all  the  letter  told  him— but  it  was  enough. 
His  face  was  like  the  face  of  a  snow-man  when  he  had 
finished  reading.  Not  only  was  he  smitten  to  the  heart 
with  the  lost  love  of  the  girl,  after  all  his  lavish  outlay  of 


384  THE  POST-GIRL 

unrighteousness  and  sin,  but  now  she  was  gone,  and  he 
was  here  in  Ullbrig  to  bear  the  brunt  of  his  deed.  For 
he  had  no  misconceptions  as  to  his  true  position  in  the 
matter,  as  Pam  had.  He  knew  his  conduct  for  what  it 
was,  and  his  hold  over  her  for  what  it  was,  and  the 
world's  judgment  for  what  it  would  be.  Her  very  going 
was  a  declaration  of  the  thing  he  had  held  over  her  in 
his  wickedness,  and  would  have  never  dared  employ.  The 
worthless  blackmail  with  which  he  had  threatened  her  had 
served  its  purpose  only  too  well.  To  such  extent  had  the 
girl  believed  its  power  and  feared  it,  and  accredited  him 
with  the  intentions  of  its  use,  that  she  had  been  terrorised 
into  flight  from  him.  And  now  the  full  responsibility  of 
his  act  pointed  at  him  with  awful  finger.  To-morrow, 
tidings  of  the  girl's  departure  would  be  out.  Tongues 
would  be  busy.  She  who  had  been  going  to  wed  the 
schoolmaster  had  loved  him  so  little  that  she  had  fled 
from  him.  Why  had  she  fled  from  him?  Because  he 
had  held  a  letter  over  her  head  that  he  had  robbed 
from  her  desk — a  letter  belonging  to  neither  of  them 
— and  by  withholding  it  from  its  proper  owner,  and 
threatening  the  girl,  he  had  got  her  to  submit  to  his 
terms.  When  once  that  became  known  he  was  a 
ruined  man.  His  love  was  ruined;  his  life  was  ruined. 
The  death  that  had  so  terrorised  him  already  must  have 
been  none  other  than  his  own.  For  rather  than  face  this 
terrible  exposure  and  degradation,  he  would  die.  He  was 
a  wild  and  desperate  man  now,  holding  the  slipping  cable 
of  life  and  honor  in  his  hands.  To  avert  this  catas- 
trophe, to  find  the  girl— at  scarcely  anything  would  he 
stop  short.  But  what  must  he  do?  Where  seek  her? 
How  act? 


THE  POST-GIRL  385 

To  cast  his  eye  on  the  second  letter  was  to  seize  upon 
it  as  he  had  done  the  first,  and  tear  open  its  contents  with- 
out a  moment's  hesitation.  Emma  Morland  would  never 
know  what  had  been  left  for  her  this  night,  and  beneath 
this  envelope  there  might  lurk  a  confession  of  the  whole 
history  of  the  girl's  departure,  with  his  own  share  writ 
incriminatingly  large;  at  the  least,  some  word  or  sen- 
tence that  might  give  him  a  clearer  clue  to  her  intentions 
than  her  own  letter  to  him.  But  he  was  disappointed. 
Beyond  beginning :  "Dearest  Emma,"  this  second  epistle 
told  him  nothing  that  he  consumed  to  know.  It  was  a 
mere  farewell  of  sorrow  for  all  the  sin  Pam  had  com- 
mitted against  Emma,  particularly  during  these  last  few 
days,  and  a  pathetic  begging  for  forgiveness.  Emma  did 
not  know  how  unhappy  Pam  had  been — Pam  hoped  Em- 
ma would  never,  never  know  such  unhappiness.  She  was 
not  the  girl  Emma  thought  her.  She  was  a  living  lie,  full 
of  wickedness  and  deception.  The  only  thing  for  her  to 
do,  she  felt,  was  to  blot  out  such  a  horrible  lie  from  the 
face  of  Ullbrig  and  be  gone.  Then  followed  assurances 
of  undying  love  to  Emma,  and  to  the  postmaster  and  to 
Mrs.  Morland,  with  a  list  of  such  things  as  Pam  be- 
queathed to  Emma  for  her  own  use  and  possession.  To 
all  intents  and  purposes,  it  was  Pam's  last  will  and  testa- 
ment, pathetically  worded  enough,  had  the  man  been  in 
any  mood  for  pathos  other  than  his  own.  To  the  post- 
master, Pam  left  this;  to  Mrs.  Morland,  that;  to  James 
Maskill,  the  other ;  to  Ginger— if  he  would  have  it— some 
further  token  of  her  affection.  Only  the  schoolmaster's 
name  was  absent.  And  at  the  end  was  Pam's  own  name, 
blurred  and  spotted  with  the  tears  that  had  fallen  fast 
at  this  juncture. 


25 


386  THE  POST-GIRL 

But  for  these  the  man  had  no  heed.  He  had  read  the 
letters,  and  they  had  told  him  nothing ;  now  he  must  de- 
cide quickly,  as  he  valued  his  life. 

And  first,  he  could  accomplish  nothing  as  he  was.  The 
remembrance  of  his  ungarbed  condition  came  upon  him 
suddenly,  and  he  cursed  himself  for  his  bodily  unreadi- 
ness—although his  mind  had  as  yet  no  commission  for 
his  limbs  to  execute.  Up  the  twisted  staircase  he  pattered 
again,  employing  his  hands  on  the  steps  in  front  of  him 
like  paws,  to  accelerate  his  pace,  and  thrust  himself  wildly 
into  his  clothes.  Then  he  scurried  down  again  to  the 
little  kitchen.  There  he  sorted  his  own  boots  from  the 
disorderly  gathering  for  the  morning's  clean,  strapped  up 
their  leather  laces  with  the  speed  of  desperation,  stuffed 
the  two  letters  into  his  coat  pocket,  caught  a  cap  from  the 
row  of  pegs  where  the  postmaster's  official  regalia  hung, 
and  scuffled  down  the  passage  to  the  front  door. 

There  was  no  mistaking  signs  of  the  girl's  flight,  or  the 
way  by  which  she  had  fled.  For  him  there  was  no  neces- 
sity to  work  back  the  big  square  bolt,  or  turn  the  traitor- 
ous key.  Pam's  fingers  had  done  that  service  already. 
He  was  out  in  the  street  with  scarcely  a  moment's  delay, 
on  the  whitewashed  step  where  Pam's  own  feet  had  rested 
less  than  fifteen  minutes  ago— could  he  only  have  known 
— closing  the  door  upon  him  by  stealth,  as  she  had  done, 
and  looking  up  and  down  the  roadway,  divided  length- 
ways between  its  far  white  band  of  moonlight  and  its 
nearer  black  shadow,  with  its  serrated  line  of  broken 
roofs  and  chimney-pots — like  the  keyboard  of  a  piano — 
as  she  had  looked  before  her  purpose  made  its  final 
plunge. 

Which  way  had  she  gone  ?  he  asked  himself,  in  frenzied 


THE  POST-GIRL  387 

supplication.  For  all  he  knew,  she  had  been  gone  an 
hour,  a  couple  of  hours,  three  hours  .  .  .  four  hours. 
Even  now,  while  he  was  making  this  vein-bursting  strug- 
gle to  come  abreast  with  her  and  stave  off  that  awful 
exposure  of  to-morrow,  it  might  all  be  ended.  Destiny 
might  have  this  shameful  history  written  to  the  full  in 
the  book  of  record,  and  the  book  inexorably  closed.  Per- 
haps the  girl's  purpose  had  been  maturing  all  these  days 
past.  Perhaps  her  plan  had  been  prepared  from  the  first 
.  .  .  and  in  abeyance,  pending  restitution  of  the  letter. 
Fool  that  he  was  ever  to  give  it !  Why  had  n't  he  adhered 
to  his  first  project,  and  given  it  to  her  only  when  they 
were  in  sight  of  the  house,  and  he  was  with  her,  or  left 
it  there  himself  by  night,  with  a  message  that  it  had  been 
overlooked  in  a  corner  of  the  post-bag?  Now  what  had 
she  done  with  it?  Had  she  restored  it?  That  would 
mean  the  Cliff  Wrangham  road  she  .must  have  taken. 
Or  had  she  fled  with  it,  bearing  all  traces  of  her  guilt 
with  her?  That  might  mean  any  road  .  .  .  the  Hun- 
mouth  road,  the  Garthston  road,  the  Merensea  road.  Or 
had  she  gone  to  cast  herself  upon  the  protection  of  the 
Vicar  ?  Accursed  old  busybody !  who  had  drilled  and 
questioned  and  cross-examined  him  about  the  wedding 
like  a  school-thief  under  suspicion.  There  was  probability 
about  this  latter  surmise,  and  at  least,  to  put  the  specula- 
tion to  the  test  would  not  take  him  far  out  of  his  way. 
Full  of  the  wild,  unrestrained  desire  to  do  something, 
with  tumultuous,  incredulous  hope  in  the  desire,  he'quitted 
his  place  on  the  doorstep,  and  set  off  in  madman's  haste 
for  the  Vicarage. 

But  the  moon  poured  down  in  sublime,  unpitying  indif- 
ference upon  its  unlighted  windows.    The  house  was  as 


388  THE  POST-GIRL 

still  and  unawake  as  the  church  at  its  side  and  the  white 
graves  beyond.  Baffled,  he  stood  and  glared  hatefully, 
with  his  hands  twitching  about  the  upturned  collar  of  his 
coat,  and  his  face  working  as  though  the  house  were 
human  and  he  would  have  throttled  it.  Of  all  men  in 
the  world  to  help  him,  here,  behind  these  luminous  opal 
windows,  was  the  man,  and  he  knew  it,  and  was  powerless 
to  evoke  his  assistance,  grinding  his  teeth  together  in  the 
fierce  agony  of  despair. 

Motion  took  him  in  the  legs  again,  and  drove  him  down 
the  narrow,  crooked  side-street  towards  the  low  road  and 
Merensea  Hill,  between  the  rows  of  tumbled  cottages,  with 
their  yellow  window  squares.  He  could  have  drummed 
on  them  with  his  fingers,  and  in  his  desperation  and 
need  of  assistance  would  have  done  so,  but  fear  withheld 
him.  As  he  ran,  he  heard  troubled  night-coughs  rap  out 
sharp  at  him  here  and  there,  where  some  aged  sufferer 
drew  breath  badly,  and  wrestled  for  such  stagnant  air  as 
was  contained  in  the  sealed  chamber.  The  buzzing  of 
some  big  eight-day  clock,  too,  chiming  a  belated  hour,  he 
heard,  and  the  fretful  crying  of  a  baby,  being  lulled  to 
sleep  by  its  weary  mother.  Heaven  knows  where  his  run 
would  have  ended  in  this  direction,  for  it  was  become  so 
blended  and  amalgamated  with  his  consciousness  that  he 
could  have  as  soon  stopped  running  as  the  feverish  urg- 
ing of  his  thoughts.  But  at  the  bottom  of  the  street, 
where  the  road  dips  its  lowest  before  making  the  sharp 
ascent  of  Merensea  Hill,  he  saw  the  dark  figure  of  a  man, 
and  death  could  not  have  stopped  him  sooner.  It  was 
only  Bob  Newbit,  smoking  his  black  cutty,  with  his  hands 
in  his  belt,  and  a  coat  thrown  over  his  shoulders,  come 
out  to  watch  over  the  fire  of  the  brick-kiln  that  glowed 


THE  POST-GIRL  389 

red  in  the  field  across  the  roadway,  but  all  men  were  one 
man  in  their  power  to  read  the  schoolmaster's  dark  secret, 
and  do  him  harm.  He  saw  the  burning  end  of  the  cutty 
turn  his  way,  and  without  waiting  to  know  whether  he 
had  been  perceived,  or  give  the  chance  of  a  hail,  he 
turned  on  his  tracks  again  like  a  hare,  and  was  forging 
up  the  street  through  the  square  lighted  windows  towards 
the  Vicarage. 

This  time,  without  stopping  in  his  breathless  course,  he 
went  by.  One  way  was  as  good  as  another  to  him,  who 
had  no  reason  for  going  any.  He  would  keep  on  to  Cliff 
Wrangham. 

At  first,  panting  doggedly  onward,  he  ran  this  way  as 
he  had  run  that.  If  his  clothing  had  been  on  fire  instead 
of  his  brain,  like  this  he  would  have  wildly  run,  seeking 
flight  from  the  agony  that  consumed  him. 

But  conviction  came  upon  him  as  he  ran.  It  seemed 
incredible  he  could  be  making  all  this  desperate  endeavor 
for  nothing.  It  must  surely  end  by  repaying  him  with 
positive  result.  Little  by  little  the  mad,  fitful  uncertainty 
gave  way  to  the  madder  flame  of  assurance.  Of  all  mad- 
ness, this  fixed  madness  is  the  most  to  be  feared.  Now 
he  was  merely  pursuing  the  girl,  who  was  along  here  in 
front  of  him.  At  times,  turning  his  ear  before  him  as  he 
lunged  onward,  he  seemed  to  hear  elusive  footsteps; 
thought  he  saw  her  flitting  aside  into  gateways  and 
hedgerows  to  escape  him.  Once  he  staggered  halfway 
across  a  grass  close  because,  he  saw  her  standing  in  the 
middle  of  it,  trying  to  deceive  him  by  her  motionlessness 
into  thinking  her  some  inanimate  thing.  When  he  came 
near  she  was  a  pump-well.  Then  he  saw  that  he  had 
relinquished  the  substance  for  the  shadow.  She  was  on 


390  THE  POST- GIRL 

the  roadway  there,  in  advance  of  him ;  her  skirts  flying, 
her  hands  to  her  hat.  And  he  lumbered  back  over  the 
soft  grass,  soddened  by  the  recent  rain,  to  the  roadway, 
and  resumed  his  forward  pursuit. 

Full  of  fresh  strenuous  desire  to  press  ahead,  and  worn 
out  with  this  unaccustomed  exertion,  he  passed,  half  run- 
ning, half  walking,  with  his  hand  bound  over  his  heart, 
and  his  breath  drawn  up  convulsively,  like  a  child  with 
the  croup— through  the  final  gateways,  one  after  another. 
Now  he  was  in  the  little  end  lane,  making  a  poor  pretence 
of  caution.  Now  he  was  by  the  stable ;  now  .he  was  by 
the  iron  wicket.  The  hope  that  had  been  his  while  he  ran 
stopped  dead  as  his  flight  stopped.  By  the  little  iron 
wicket,  and  still  under  cover  of  the  kitchen-garden  wall, 
he  stayed,  gasping,  and  dared  not  go  further,  or  look  at 
the  front  of  the  house,  for  fear  of  what  he  should  see- 
the sight  of  all  its  moonlit  windows  looking  out  with  the 
calm,  self -communing  gaze  of  the  blind,  that  know  noth- 
ing of  what  they  gaze  upon.  As  the  Vicarage  had  faced 
him,  so  this  house  should  face  him.  It  was  the  end.  He 
knew  his  doom. 

And  knowing  it,  he  found  strength  to  see,  and  saw. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

SAW  the  magnified  yellow  window  thrown  over  the 
pathway  and  .out  across  the  tangled  grass  to  the 
mouldy  green  railings,  from  the  Spawer's  room.  Here 
was  life  at  last.  Thank  God !  Here  was  life  at  last. 

His  heart  gave  a  convulsive  leap  of  exultation  within 
him.  Could  it  be  mere  coincidence  that  of  all  Ullbrig  and 
Cliff  Wrangham  this  man  should  be  unnumbered  among 
the  sleepers  ?  Could  it  be  that  the  late  light,  flowing  from 
that  little  low  window  beyond  the  porch,  had  no  concern 
with  his  own  misery  and  the  girl's  flight?  He  could  not 
think  it.  Here  was  his  journey's  end.  Let  him  take  the 
girl  red-handed  in  shame,  if  need  be.  Shame,  even, 
counted  for  nothing  in  his  love  of  her.  Had  she  been 
dyed  to  the  neck  in  iniquity  he  would  have  wished  her, 
and  followed  to  the  world's  end  for  her,  without  the  lash 
of  his  own  sin  to  whip  up  the  pursuit. 

Slowly,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  sidelight  from  that 
fateful  window,  he  advanced ;  arms  outspread  for  caution, 
doubling  inwards  from  his  middle  at  each  step,  and  mak- 
ing a  semi-circle  upon  the  grass  to  get  sooner  and  deeper 
sight  into  the  room.  All  at  once  his  eye  cleared  the  ob- 
struction of  trailing  porch,  and  he  stopped  here,  as  though 
to  take  in  fresh  supplies  of  cautious  reserve  and  get  lever- 
age upon  the  position.  Then,  more  laboriously  he  worked 
forward  again ;  his  head  far  in  advance ;  his  knees  bent ; 
his  arms  like  a  baboon's,  extended  to  the  ground— as 
though  at  an  alarm  he  would  clutch  at  the  long  grass  and 

39* 


392  THE  POST-GIRL 

draw  himself  into  its  shelter.  The  piano-end  came  into 
view.  Its  keyboard  of  chequered  ivory  lengthened  as  he 
approached  upon  it;  next  he  gained  sight  of  the  mantel- 
shelf ;  and  last  of  all  ...  with  his  finger-nails  clenched 
into  his  palms  for  self-repression  .  .  .  the  man. 

He  was  seated  on  an  end  of  the  table,  with  his  back 
towards  the  window,  and  appeared  to  be  reading  or 
scrutinising  something  beneath  the  powerful  light  of  the 
big  hanging  lamp.  What  it  was  he  bent  his  head  over 
the  schoolmaster  could  not  see,  but  his  acute,  tormented 
vision  saw  something  else  that  discharged  itself  at  once 
in  lightning  of  revelation  through  the  whole  length  and 
breadth  of  his  being,  and  blinded  him  for  a  moment  with 
fierce,  flashing  passion  and  exultant  joy.  The  room  was 
heaped  up  under  the  confusion  of  a  departure.  There 
were  books  stacked  together  carefully  on  the  table ;  music 
in  fat  portfolios ;  there  were  garments  folded  and  un- 
folded; coats  and  trousers;  boots  on  trees;  and  to  give 
crowning  evidence  to  his  deduction,  a  big  leather  traveling 
portmanteau,  open  of  lid,  beyond  the  fireplace.  Ah !  was 
it  any  longer  a  coincidence,  these  two  departures  ?  Thank 
God  he  was  in  time.  The  Lord  had  not  deserted  him.  It 
was  the  Lord  that  had  brought  him  here  this  night. 

Meanwhile,  the  Spawer  kept  his  attitude,  with  bowed 
head  of  absorption  beneath  the  lamp;  and  the  man 
watched. 

Yes;  he  was  going.  The  schoolmaster  had  made  no 
mistake.  A  child,  looking  in  at  the  open  window,  would 
have  declared  as  much.  Of  a  truth,  Maurice  Ethelbert 
Wynne  had  had  his  last  decisive  bout  with  that  big  bully 
Destiny.  No  mistake  about  it,  he  had  been  badly  beaten. 

All  through  the  hours  after  supper  he  had  been  collect- 


THE  POST- GIRL  393 

ing  his  effects  together ;  packing  the  big  trunk  down  here, 
that  it  might  be  more  easily  conveyed  to  the  spring  cart 
on  the  morrow;  packing  the  smaller  portmanteau  up- 
stairs. Upstairs  to-night  for  the  most  part  his  work  had 
been,  only  quitting  it  at  long  intervals  to  bring  down  fur- 
ther contributions  for  the  yawning  leather  trunk.  And 
now,  on  this  last  occasion  of  his  descent,  he  had  been 
made  aware,  for  the  first  time,  that  a  couple  of  letters  lay 
on  the  keyboard  of  the  pianoforte,  by  the  bass  end,  near 
the  window. 

At  the  beginning  his  eye  had  rested  upon  them,  and 
accepted  their  presence  as  a  matter  of  course,  without  any 
further  inquiry  or  speculation,  quite  content  with  seeing 
them.  It  was  a  customary  place  for  him  to  leave  things 
of  the  sort,  only  he  did  n't  remember  having  left  anything 
there  lately.  By  the  way,  what  letters  would  they  be? 
More  out  of  idleness  than  real  curiosity,  he  put  out  his 
hand  and  took  them  up. 

The  first,  addressed  to  him  in  that  firm,  feminine  hand- 
writing—almost masculine — beneath  a  wealth  of  green 
stamps  and  postmarks,  he  recognised  at  a  glance.  But 
it  had  not  been  opened.  Strange  that !  Which  of  all  her 
letters  had  escaped  him  like  this?  When  had  it  come? 
How  long  had  he  overlooked  it  ?  Still  asking  himself  the 
questions,  he  turned  his  eye  upon  the  second  letter.  That, 
too,  was  addressed  to  him  in  a  handwriting  he  knew  no 
less  surely— though  with  less  familiarity:  the  soft,  neat, 
girl-like  script  of  Pam,  and  that,  too,  must  be  unopened, 
for  it  was  the  first  he  had  received  from  her.  From  Pam, 
of  all  people  in  the  world.  What  had  she  to  say  to  him  ? 
Perhaps  this  letter  would  explain  the  other.  Very  nerv- 
ous of  finger,  he  tore  open  the  envelope. 


394  THE  POST-GIRL 

A  curious  little  letter  it  was,  perplexingly  short,  that 
puckered  up  his  brows  and  left  him  more  puzzled  after 
its  perusal  than  before.  It  appeared  to  be,  in  some  sort, 
a  confession  for  an  imaginary  crime  that  the  girl  had 
committed— though  wherein  lay  the  enormity  of  it,  or  the 
necessity  for  this  present  epistle,  not  for  the  lifeof  him  could 
he  perceive.  Pam,  indeed,  whose  own  guilt  was  so  vivid 
that  a  word  was  sufficient  to  depict  it,  had  thought  that 
the  same  word  could  reveal  it  to  all  the  world.  Her  letter 
was  like  the  answer  to  a  riddle,  with  the  question  lacking. 
Apparently,  the  Spawer  told  himself,  the  girl  had  failed 
to  deliver  a  letter — the  letter  accompanying  this,  he  pre- 
sumed— and  it  had  preyed  terribly  upon  her  mind.  He 
was  to  forgive  her,  as  she  felt  sure  he  would  forgive  her 
if  he  could  only  know  what  suffering  it  had  cost  her.  And 
then  followed  an  outburst  of  affectionate  gratitude  for 
all  the  kindness  he  had  lavished  on  her ;  his  never-failing 
goodness  and  patience.  These  she  should  never  forget. 
With  a  concluding  appeal  to  him  that  he  should  try  and 
think  as  leniently  of  her  as  he  could. 

Think  as  leniently  of  her  as  he  could !  Miserable  topsy- 
turveydom  of  life,  where  all  one's  acts  turn  upside-down 
in  the  acting,  and  one's  deeds  misrepresent  one  with  the 
deliberate  purpose  of  political  agents.  Here  he  had  been 
holding  himself  a  supplicant  upon  the  girl's  mercy,  and 
lo!  all  the  while,  it  seemed  their  positions  were  exactly 
reversed,  and  it  was  she  who  imagined  herself  an  offender 
against  him !  This  letter  of  the  girl's  troubled  him.  Did 
it  mean  she  had  never  been  sure  of  his  friendship?  Did 
it  mean  she  had  altogether  overlooked  the  signs  in  his 
conduct  that  should  have  told  her  he  would  have  forgiven 
anything  ...  to  her?  Had  all  their  relationship  been 


THE  POST- GIRL  395 

built  up  of  vain  imaginings  and  misunderstandings?  If 
.  .  .  for  instance  .  .  . 

But  he  would  have  no  more  "ifs."  Already  he  had 
had  too  many.  What  might  have  been  and  what  was  were 
as  asunder  as  the  Poles.  Let  him  not  revive  the  old  un- 
worthy desires  under  the  cloak  of  If.  What  did  the 
second  letter  say? 

He  opened  it  more  slowly  than  the  first— as  though  he 
felt  a  little  the  shame  of  going  before  its  presence,  and 
did  not  anticipate  much  happiness  from  this  interview  of 
pen  and  ink.  But  as  he  read,  it  seemed  he  could  not  tear 
his  eyes  away  from  their  fascinating  occupation.  If 
Pam's  letter  had  added  cloud  to  his  confusion,  this  letter 
was  explicit  indeed— and  yet  dazed  him  at  the  same  time 
with  an  overwhelming  sense  of  unreality. 

The  freedom  that  he  had  felt  himself  unable  to  ask  of 
the  Other  Girl,  in  this  letter  she  was  asking  of  him.  All 
the  old  stock-in-trade  arguments  of  love  that  he  had 
thought  once  of  bringing  to  bear  upon  her,  she  was 
bringing  to  bear  on  him.  Their  attachment,  she  pointed 
out,  was  a  mere  boy-and-girl  attachment,  that  had  never 
taken  deep  root  in  their  later  lives.  He  had  offered  her 
her  liberty  once,  but  he  would  know  that  all  her  sense  of 
loyalty  had  refused  the  gift  at  the  time.  But  now  it  was 
different.  Another  stronger  love  had  come  into  her  life, 
and  she  would  not  disguise  the  fact  from  him— it  had 
more  to  offer.  She  was  not  cut  out  for  the  wife  of  a 
composer.  He  would  know  that,  really,  without  her  tell- 
ing him.  She  could  never  be  helpful  to  him ;  never  even 
give  him  the  full  measure  of  sympathy  that  the  creative 
mind  needed.  In  a  word,  love  and  worldly  position  had 
been  laid  together  at  her  feet  and  she  dared  not  proceed 


396  THE  POST- GIRL 

with  this  flat,  stale  attachment  of  theirs,  that  had  neither 
reason  nor  riches.  It  was  always  a  woman's  privilege  to 
change  her  mind,  and  she  would  avail  herself  of  it  to 
accept  the  liberty  he  had  offered  her  before.  Friends 
they  had  been,  all  this  while— never  lovers  at  all— and 
friends,  she  trusted,  they  would  never  cease  to  be.  There 
was  a  little  blot  of  tears  at  the  end,  a  slight  incoherence 
of  phraseology  in  a  sentimental  reversion  to  their  happy 
past  .  .  .  but  only  slight— only  very  slight.  Love  had 
been  dead  between  them  long  ago.  She  was  reconciled 
to  that.  But  this  letter  was  its  official  funeral— and  it  is 
a  strong  woman  whose  tears  can  resist  the  appeal  of  a 
burying. 

And  this  was  the  letter  the  Spawer  read  with  face  bent 
down,  while  the  man  outside  kept  watch. 

No  wonder  he  sat  motionless  on  the  corner  edge  of  the 
table,  as  he  had  first  seated  himself,  poring  over  that 
magnetising  something  that  the  watcher,  for  all  his 
watching,  could  not  see.  For  what  did  this  letter  mean 
to  him?  Nothing  at  all  now,  in  hard  fact,  perhaps  .  .  . 
but  yet  .  .  .  what  tantalising  riches  in  speculation.  Here 
were  his  trunks,  and  here  was  he,  all  ready  for  dutiful 
departure— and  in  his  hands  was  the  instrument  of  re- 
prieve. His  duty  had  been  remitted  him.  From  that 
duty  he  was  free.  Who  should  say  what  was  his  duty 
now?  Had  he  a  duty  at  all— to  himself,  or  anybody? 
Or  was  he,  by  virtue  of  this  relinquishment,  become  a 
mere  jellyfish,  without  volition,  to  float  this  way  or  that 
at  the  mercy  of  the  tides?  What  was  there  to  take  him 
from  Ullbrig  now?  What  was  to  keep  him?  If  he 
stayed?  If  he  went?  If  this  letter  had  come  sooner! 
If  this  letter  had  only  come  sooner! 


THE  POST-GIRL  397 

And  the  whole  thing  began  over  again. 

All  the  old  fever  of  reasoning  set  in  anew  with  him, 
and  rose  up  to  its  height.  All  the  old  desires.  All  the  old 
wild  hopes.  He  had  been  tired  when  he  came  downstairs, 
less  with  physical  fatigue  than  with  the  dull,  sleepless 
lassitude  of  established  despair — but  now  he  was  very 
wide  awake.  His  eyes  revolted  at  the  thoughts  of  being 
closed  perforce  upon  a  pillow;  they  wanted  license  to 
keep  open  house  for  his  brain  all  night  through.  Sud- 
denly, too,  came  upon  him  the  nervous  appetite  for  ac- 
tivity; the  desire  to  give  a  bodily  articulation  to  the 
movement  of  his  mind.  He  felt  as  though  he  could  have 
set  off,  and  walked  the  globe  round,  and  been  back  again 
here  by  to-morrow's  breakfast.  And  submitting  to  the 
feeling,  he  rose  all  at  once  from  his  place  on  the  table, 
turned  down  the  twin  burners  of  the  swing  lamp,  picked 
up  his  cap,  squeezed  his  way  out  through  the  two  doors 
and  the  narrow  porch,  and  set  off  towards  the  sea. 

He  walked  with  a  brisk,  purposeful  step,  for  the  night 
was  chill  beneath  the  white  moon  and  the  many  cool  stars. 
Part  way  across  Luke  Hemingway's  big  ten-acre  field,  at 
a  sudden  turn  of  his  head  towards  some  recumbent,  cud- 
chewing  cattle,  his  eye-corner  caught  the  tail-end  of  an 
upright  figure,  vanishing  into  the  hedge  at  some  distance 
behind  him.  There  was  nothing,  of  course,  when  he 
looked,  to  confirm  the  impression,  beyond  the  clear-de- 
fined, moonlit  path  along  which  he  had  come.  But  his 
eye  retained  such  an  obstinate  remembrance  of  its  own 
delusion,  that  at  a  few  yards  further  on,  choosing  his 
moment,  he  turned  on  his  heel  again.  And  again, 
strangely  enough,  his  eye  seemed  to  be  just  eluded  by 
the  vanishing  figure  of  a  man.  Had  he  been  nervously 


398  THE  POST-GIRL 

given,  he  might  have  felt  tempted  to  walk  back  and  scru- 
tinise the  hedgerow  that  had  thus  twice  afforded  refuge 
to  his  shadowy  pursuant.  But  for  one  thing,  his  mind 
was  too  busy  for  nerves  to-night,  and  knowing,  moreover, 
the  strange  receptive  sensitiveness  of  the  human  eye,  and 
the  assurance  with  which  it  attests,  as  realities,  mere 
miraculous  figments  of  the  brain,  he  passed  on — reserv- 
ing the  right  to  turn  again  when  he  had  given  his  visual 
informant  an  opportunity  to  forget  its  impression. 

After  a  longer  interval,  therefore,  he  looked  back 
again,  on  the  pretext  of  stooping  to  his  shoe-lace,  and 
three  times  after  that.  Twice  his  eye  attested  to  the 
presence  of  a  furtive  figure,  that  seemed  to  drop  to 
earth  in  the  thick  fog  grass  when  he  turned,  only  now 
he  knew  that  his  eye  did  not  deceive  him.  He  was  being 
followed. 

That  the  discovery  did  not  tend  to  add  much  zest  to  his 
midnight  ramble— even  had  there  been  any  before— the 
Spawer  would  have  been  the  last  to  deny.  It  is  an  un- 
pleasant thing,  at  any  time,  to  have  one's  back  turned 
towards  a  stealthy  follower  of  undeclared  intentions,  but 
moonlight  and  a  lonely  coast  add  still  further  unpleasant- 
ness to  the  situation.  However,  the  fact  remained,  and 
it  was  no  use  getting  into  an  unnecessary  fuss  about  it. 
To  turn  back  openly  would  not  remedy  matters  much,  or 
give  the  Spawer  any  particular  advantage  over  his  un- 
known pursuer.  He  decided,  therefore,  keeping  cautious 
vigil  over  alternate  shoulders  as  he  walked,  to  push  on 
to  the  cliff,  without  betraying  the  least  sign  of  suspicion, 
and  see  to  what  extent  this  figure  would  press  pursuit. 
So,  quickening  his  step  imperceptibly,  and  setting  up  a 


THE  POST-GIRL  399 

blithe,  not  too  noisy  whistle  of  unconcern,  he  came  to  the 
cliff,  the  shadow  following. 

The  wind  and  storm  of  the  past  few  days  had  troubled 
the  sea,  that  thundered  up  in  ugly  assailment  of  surf 
about  the  cliff's  soft  earthen  base,  for  the  tide  was  rising. 
Awhile  he  stood,  at  the  point  where  he  had  come  upon 
the  path,  watching  the  great  waste  of  chill  waters  with 
one  eye,  and  the  spot  where  the  figure  had  vanished,  with 
the  other.  The  keen  gaze  of  Farnborough  gleamed  out 
at  him  in  sudden  recognition,  and  here  and  there  little 
intermittent  pin-points  of  yellow  pricked  the  horizon 
where  boats  rose  and  fell  upon  the  bosom  of  the  sea. 
Then  he  lifted  his  leg  leisurely  over  the  gate-stile,  by 
which  he  had  been  standing,  and  sat  for  a  moment  astride 
of  it.  From  this  perch  he  commanded  the  hedgerow— 
that  ran  down  to  the  cliff  edge  at  right  angles — on  both 
sides,  and  could  not  be  approached  without  his  observ- 
ance. But  whatever  object  his  follower  had,  it  seemed 
certainly,  so  far  at  least,  that  it  was  unconnected  with 
any  ideas  of  direct  encounter.  There  had  been  no  at- 
tempt to  gain  on  him;  their  relative  positions  now  were 
what  they  had  been  at  the  first  moment  of  discovery ;  and 
it  seemed  he  might  sit  here  till  daybreak  without  his 
shadow's  making  any  advance  in  the  open.  Suddenly, 
an  idea  to  test  the  situation  came  into  his  mind,  and  on 
the  instant  he  acted  on  it.  The  man,  whoever  he  might 
be,  was  about  fifty  yards  or  so  inland,  on  the  shady  side 
of  the  hedge,  and  watching  the  Spawer's  conspicuous, 
upright  figure  keenly,  no  doubt.  All  at  once  the  Spawer 
brought  his  second  leg  over  the  rail,  descended,  stepped 
quickly  some  paces  inland,  and  drew  into  the  hedge. 


400  THE  POST-GIRL 

Though  the  moon  fell  on  him,  the  hedge  was  straggling 
and  untrimmed,  with  somewhat  of  a  dry  ditch  at  its  bot- 
tom, and  long  grass.  Standing  here,  unobtrusively,  it 
would  take  an  active  search  to  come  upon  him,  and  such 
a  search  would  not  only  show  him  his  pursuer,  but  give 
him  some  shrewd  idea  of  the  man's  intentions. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

IT  was  not  long  that  the  Spawer  had  to  wait.  He  had 
scarcely  subsided  into  his  position,  indeed,  when  he 
heard,  on  the  other  side  of  the  hedge,  the  rapid  "rff,  rff, 
rff,"  that  told  where  long  grass  was  being  torn  aside  to 
the  passage  of  hurried  feet.  The  fellow  was  running, 
then.  It  flashed  across  the  Spawer's  mind  grimly,  as  he 
listened  to  the  sound  of  him,  that  he  did  not  think  himself 
of  such  interest  to  any  mortal  man.  And  almost  before 
he  had  time  to  gratify  his  ironic  humor  with  a  smiler  the 
mortal  man  had  scrambled  desperately  over  the  stile,  fling- 
ing himself  to  ground  on  this  side  of  it  with  such  a  thud 
of  precipitation  that  he  had  to  preserve  his  equilibrium 
with  spread  fingers  in  the  grass.  Next  moment  he  pushed 
himself  upright  again,  ran  hesitatingly  forward  some 
paces,  stopped  dead,  and  commenced  to  beat  about  in  a 
wild,  blind  search  on  all  sides  of  him,  as  though  he  were 
dazed  with  the  loss  of  his  quarry.  For  a  moment  it  came 
into  the  Spawer's  head  as  he  watched  him  that  perhaps 
the  man  was  mad  or  drunk.  Certainly  there  seemed  little 
of  rationality  about  his  actions.  At  times  he  ran;  at 
times  he  cast  himself  so  close  upon  the  edge  of  the  cliff 
that  the  Spawer's  flesh  crept  cold,  and  he  wondered 
whether  he  ought  to  stand  by  and  see  a  deluded  fellow- 
being  submit  himself  to  such  dangers.  If  he  went  over 
there,  with  the  boiling  sea  beneath,  it  was  little  chance 
he  would  ever  come  up  again— till  the  tide  brought  him. 
But  after  a  moment  or  two,  the  Spawer  grew  reassured 

26  4°i 


402  THE  POST-GIRL 

that  this  catastrophe  was  not  likely  to  happen,  and  con- 
tinued watching  in  silence. 

He  was  a  furtive,  unprepossessing-looking  fellow,  it 
struck  the  Spawer.  His  coat-collar  was  buttoned  up  to 
his  neck,  lending  a  particularly  sinister  touch  to  his  ap- 
pearance, and  the  coat  itself  hung  upon  him  loosely,  as 
though  he  had  no  shoulders,  and  bagged  with  an  empty 
flatness  about  the  waist,  as  though,  too,  he  had  no  stom- 
ach. It  was  a  tramp's  coat,  with  tails — such  as  no  honest 
rustic  would  wear— but  had  found  its  way  here,  through 
a  nameless  course  of  degradation,  from  the  towns.  And 
they  were  tramp's  trousers  too,  that  looked  as  though  any 
minute  they  might  come  down ;  loose,  lifeless,  shapeless 
trousers,  whose  bottoms  his  boots  trod  on  at  every  step. 
Otherwise,  he  wore  a  dark  cloth  cap,  pulled  tightly  over 
his  scalp,  with  its  neb  scowling  down  to  his  eyebrows, 
and  his  breath  came  and  went  vindictively — or  so  it 
seemed  to  the  Spawer — as  though  he  had  been  baulked  of 
something,  and  was  panting  more  through  rage  than  exer- 
tion. 

And  all  at  once,  puzzled  to  fit  some  kind  of  a  key  to 
the  fellow's  strange  conduct,  what  enmity  or  what  design 
he  could  have  against  him,  the  Spawer's  mind  harked 
back  to  the  two  letters  he  had  received  this  night,  and  to 
the  enigmatical  epistle  of  the  girl,  and  in  a  flash  he  knew 
his  man. 

But  though  he  knew  him,  whatever  the  recognition 
might  serve  him  in  despatching  theories  of  robbery  and 
violence,  it  served  him  little  for  enlightenment.  Added, 
indeed,  to  his  perplexity,  instead  of  subtracting  from  it. 
For  what  object  had  caused  this  man  to  follow  him — 
him,  his  poor,  crushed,  and  trampled  antagonist— to  the 


THE  POST-GIRL  403 

sea  to-night  ?  Had  he  not  injured  him  enough,  but  that  he 
must  needs  track  him  in  this  despicable  fashion,  and  play 
spy  upon  his  doings?  All  the  hatred  and  unreasoning 
disregard  that  the  unsuccessful  have  for  the  successful 
rose  up  within  him  at  the  discovery.  Of  the  school- 
master's virtues  he  knew  nothing;  sought  to  know  noth- 
ing. It  was  enough  for  him  that  to  this  man  he  was 
indebted  for  his  soul's  humiliation;  that  this  sinister- 
looking  figure  had  supplanted  him  for  occupation  of  the 
dearest  territory  in  the  world;  and  he  rejoiced  with  a 
cruel  and  unhallowed  joy  that  this,  his  vanquisher,  had 
been  given  over  thus  into  his  hand. 

Ten  to  one,  were  he  only  to  make  no  sound,  he  could 
succeed  in  eluding  discovery,  for  the  fellow  showed  no 
aptitude  in  search,  but  success  of  this  sort  was  not  what 
he  desired.  He  had  been  contemptibly  dogged  for  some 
purpose  or  other,  and  he  would  have  full  revenge  of  the 
man's  shame.  Very  quietly  he  stepped  out  of  his  shelter 
and  showed  his  tall  figure  in  the  moonlight. 

"You  appear  to  be  looking  for  something,"  he  said. 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice,  the  man  spun  round  eagerly 
on  his  heel,  as  though  his  first  emotion  had  been  of  pure 
incredulous  joy  that  his  quarry  was  not  lost  to  him. 
Shame  succeeded  upon  that,  to  think  of  what  the  Spawer 
had  been  a  witness,  and  his  forward  impulse  was  checked 
momentarily  into  a  falling  back  on  the  heel  that  had 
urged  him.  Then,  just  as  quickly,  anger  succeeded  upon 
shame.  Those  chance  words,  uttered  so  carelessly,  but 
with  such  a  frigid  tone  of  scorn— as  though  the  Spawer 
in  mind  towered  above  him  like  an  Alpine  summit,  and 
his  lofty  contempt  was  snow-capped—roused  his  wrath 
to  desperation. 


404  THE  POST-GIRL 

"You  know  what  I  am  looking  for,"  he  said  hoarsely, 
and  advanced  with  both  hands  up  at  his  coat-collar. 

Could  the  Spawer  have  had  but  one  glimpse  into  the 
surging  hot  mind  of  the  man  at  this  moment,  and  seen  of 
what  wild  charges  he  stood  accused,  he  might  have  turned 
the  sword  of  his  words  into  a  ploughshare,  and  tilled 
honestly  for  enlightenment.  But  in  his  own  mind  it  was 
he  who  had  been  wronged.  And  besides  that,  the  fierce, 
unexpressed  hostility  of  love  was  between  them.  Even 
had  there  not  been  this  present  cause  of  quarrel  to  kindle 
anger,  they  would  have  been  rampant  for  the  fray  like 
two  rein-bucks. 

"I  know  what  you  are  looking  for?"  he  asked,  and  his 
voice  moved  contemptuously  away  from  the  suggestion 
as  he  might  himself  have  moved  (so  the  schoolmaster 
thought)  from  the  contaminating  touch  of  an  unclean 
beggar.  A  clear,  well-pitched,  musical  voice  it  was— so 
different  from  the  schoolmaster's  hoarse,  toneless  utter- 
ance—and its  very  superiority,  seeming  now  to  take  con- 
scious pride  in  itself,  stirred  up  the  listening  man's  worst 
hatred.  In  birth,  in  station,  in  presence,  in  voice,  in  pos- 
sessions, and  in  love,  this  tall,  insufferable  figure  pre- 
vailed. "You  make  a  mistake  .  .  ."  he  heard  it  say  to 
him.  "I  know  nothing  at  all  about  you,  except  that 
you  have  been  dogging  my  footsteps  for  this  last  quarter 
of  an  hour.  I  know  that.  If  you  have  anything  to  add 
to  it,  I  am  ready  to  hear  you." 

The  lean,  shabby  figure  of  the  schoolmaster  flinched 
visibly  in  the  moonlight  at  each  fresh  phrase,  as  if  it  had 
been  a  whip-lash  that  his  antagonist  was  curling  about 
him.  With  both  hands  clenched  at  his  coat-collar ,  he  seemed 
almost  to  be  hanging  on  to  resolution  against  a  groan. 


THE  POST- GIRL 


405 


"Yes,"  he  blurted  out  fiercely  at  last,  releasing  his 
hands  at  the  same  moment  from  this  occupation,  and  cry- 
ing out  his  confession  like  a  wild  triumph  of  delinquency ; 
"I  have  been  following  you.  You  may  know  it." 

"I  do  know  it,"  said  the  Spawer. 

"I  say  you  may  know  it,"  the  schoolmaster  repeated, 
raising  his  hoarse  voice  another  tuneless  semitone  up  its 
chromatic  of  passion.  "I  don't  care." 

"Don't  care,"  the  Spawer  told  him  coolly,  "as  you  may 
be  aware,  got  hanged.  I  would  advise  you  to  take  profit 
by  his  example." 

The  schoolmaster's  hands  flew  back  to  his  collar  again 
with  one  accord. 

"You  thought  you  were  safe  from  me,"  he  forced 
through  his  unsteady  lips.  "You  thought  you  were  free 
to  do  as  you  liked." 

"I  certainly  thought  I  was  free  to  walk  along  the  cliff 
without  being  persecuted  with  these  attentions,"  the 
Spawer  cut  into  him. 

"Yes;  you  thought  .  .  .  you  could  trample  on  me!" 
the  schoolmaster  hissed  at  him  venomously. 

"I  have  not  the  least  desire  to  trample  on  you,"  the 
Spawer  assured  him  frigidly.  "I  would  not  tread  on  a 
worm  if  I  knew  it.  There  is  room  in  the  world  for  us 
both— if  you  '11  be  so  good  as  to  make  use  of  it." 

"You  think  .  .  ."  the  schoolmaster  cried  passionately, 
"that  because  you  come  from  big  towns,  and  live  in  fine 
houses,  and  wear  fine  clothes  .  .  .  that  you  can  do  what 
you  like  in  the  country." 

"It  seems  I  am  mistaken,"  the  Spawer  apostrophised 
sarcastically.  "In  the  towns,  at  least,  we  have  the  police 
to  defend  us  from  molestation  by  night." 


406  THE  POST-GIRL 

"You  think,"  the  schoolmaster  shouted  at  him,  as 
though  to  beat  down  his  words  and  tread  them  and  his 
opposition  underfoot,  "...  you  think  we  country  people 
are  fit  subjects  for  your  scorn.  You  think  you  can  walk 
over  our  feelings,  and  trifle  with  all  our  happiness  as 
though  we  were  mere  paving-stones  for  your  own  evil 
enjoyments.  You  think  we  are  the  dirt  beneath  your 
feet." 

"Indeed?"  the  Spawer  remarked.  "I  never  thought 
half  so  much  about  you  as  you  suppose." 

"You  have  thought  it,"  the  schoolmaster  cried  at  him ; 
"and  you  are  thinking  it.  Every  word  you  say  to  me  is 
an  insult.  You  want  to  tell  me  that  I  am  beneath  your 
notice,  and  that  your  contempt  is  too  good  for  me.  You 
think  you  can  mock  me  indiscriminately,  and  make  a  fool 
of  me." 

"Not  at  all,"  the  Spawer  responded  carelessly.  "I  have 
my  own  business.  You  can  do  that  quite  well  enough  for 
yourself." 

"But  you  are  wrong !"  the  schoolmaster  shouted,  in  a 
voice  almost  inarticulate  with  passion,  and  the  terrible 
cooped-up  storm  of  hopes  and  fears.  "You  are  wrong. 
You  thought  you  could  kick  me  aside  like  a  dog,  and  leave 
me  to  the  derision  and  contempt  of  Ullbrig.  You  thought 
you  could  break  up  an  honest  man's  happiness  for  your 
own  wicked  diversion,  and  steal  off  like  a  thief  with  it. 
But  you  are  wrong.  You  are  wrong."  He  was  almost 
weeping— though  the  Spawer  did  not  know  it— with  the 
insufferable  fever  of  desperation.  Had  the  Spawer 
known  it,  he  would  have  had  mercy,  and  surrendered  this 
wordy  victory  rather  than  fight  to  the  finish  with  the 
poor  God- forsaken,  love- forsaken,  self -forsaken  devil  that 


THE  POST-GIRL  407 

cut  and  lunged  so  furiously  at  him.  But  the  only  conclu- 
sion respecting  this  encounter,  glimmering  at  the  far  back 
of  his  brain,  was  that  the  man  was  consumed  with  the  fire 
of  an  unworthy  jealousy,  and  he  took  joy  in  piling  up  its 
fuel— even  at  the  risk  of  burning  his  own  fingers.  "But 
you  are  wrong !  You  are  wrong !"  the  schoolmaster  reit- 
erated at  him. 

"It  seems  I  am  wrong  in  many  things,"  the  Spawer  as- 
sented. "But  that  's  scarcely  surprising,  since  I  don't 
know  who  in  the  world  you  are,  or  where  you  come  from, 
or  what  the  devil  you  want  with  me." 

"You  know  who  I  am,"  the  schoolmaster  shouted  at 
him.  "And  you  know  what  I  want  with  you." 

"Not  in  the  least,"  the  Spawer  told  him,  "unless  it  is  re- 
lief, but  if  so,  you  have  a  strange  way  of  asking  for  it." 

"You  know  it  is  not  relief!"  the  tortured  figure  ex- 
claimed. "If  I  were  starving,  I  would  go  to  my  grave 
sooner  than  ask  a  penny  of  such  as  you — that  have  n't  the 
heart  of  a  dog.  You  want  to  put  me  off  with  words  and 
sneers  and  scorns,  but  I  won't  be  put  off.  You  shan't  put 
me  off.  I  have  stood  everything  that  I  will  stand." 

"You  have  certainly  stood  long  enough,"  the  Spawer 
remarked.  "Don't  stand  any  longer  on  my  account.  If 
you  have  said  all  you  wish  to  say,  perhaps  you  will  kindly 
tell  me  which  way  is  your  way,  and  leave  me  free  to 
choose  the  other." 

"I  have  not  said  all  I  wish  to  say,"  the  man  cried, 
opening  and  clenching  his  fingers.  "You  shall  not  shake 
me  off,  for  all  your  pretending.  I  have  found  you  in 
time,  and  I  will  stick  to  you  for  the  rights  you  want  to 
rob  me  of.  You  shall  not  slip  me.  Where  you  go  I  will 
go.  You  shall  not  get  away." 


408  THE  POST-GIRL 

The  Spawer  pulled  his  moustache,  and  looked  the  man 
up  and  down. 

"Really  .  .  ."  he  said,  after  a  while.  "You  are  a 
smaller  man  than  I  ...  but  you  tempt  me  very  much  to 
kick  you." 

In  a  second,  at  that  threat  of  action,  the  pent-up  tor- 
rents of  the  schoolmaster's  rage  and  anguish  burst  forth 
from  him.  Anything  was  better  than  words.  He  rushed 
up  wildly  to  his  adversary. 

"Kick  me!"  he  cried  fiercely,  shouting  up  with  hoarse 
voice  of  challenge  into  the  Spawer's  face.  "Kick  me ! 
Touch  me.  Lay  a  hand  upon  me.  You  say  you  '11  kick 
me.  Kick  me." 

He  pressed  so  hard  upon  the  Spawer,  with  arms 
thrown  out  and  flourishing  wildly,  that  even  had  he 
wished  it,  the  Spawer  would  not  have  had  purchase  to 
kick  him.  Instead,  he  receded  somewhat  from  their  un- 
desirable chest-to-chest  contact,  striving  by  gentle  with- 
drawal to  mollify  the  man's  mad  anger.  For  he  had 
seen  into  his  eyes,  and  their  look  startled  him.  Not  for 
himself— he  was  in  every  sense  the  man's  better,  and 
could  have  wrought  with  him  as  though  he  were  a  school- 
boy's cane— but  for  the  man.-  It  was  borne  in  upon  him 
suddenly  anew,  with  terrible  conviction,  that  the  fellow 
was  mad ;  the  victim  of  some  fierce  hallucination— whose 
fixed  point  of  hatred  was  in  himself — and  he  repented 
now  that  he  had  goaded  him  to  such  a  cruel  pitch.  And 
still  the  man  pressed  upon  him.  "Kick  me !"  he  kept  say- 
ing, utterly  deaf  to  the  Spawer's  temporising  and  per- 
suasive utterances.  "Kick  me.  Touch  me.  Lay  a  hand 
upon  me." 

To  lay  a  hand  upon  him  now,  even  in  mere  pacification, 


THE  POST-GIRL  409 

meant  an  inevitable  struggle,  and  such  a  termination  was 
too  unseemly  to  be  thought  of.  As  it  was,  matters  had 
gone  altogether  beyond  their  bounds.  To  have  chastised 
the  fellow  with  scorn  had  been  one  thing,  but  to  be  in- 
volved in  a  retreat  before  the  hoarse  breath  of  a  pas- 
sionate madman  was  another,  utterly  outside  all  dig- 
nity. Sooner  or  later,  too,  he  would  have  to  stand  or  be 
forced  over  the  cliff.  The  thought  of  the  boiling  sea 
below,  to  which,  in  the  concentration  of  his  faculties  upon 
this  ignominious  encounter,  he  had  been  paying  no  heed, 
recalled  him  hotly,  and  he  stole  an  anxious  glance  over 
his  shoulder  to  learn  where  he  stood. 

And  at  that  very  moment  he  stood  on  the  cliff  edge, 
and  it  slipped  and  gave  way  with  him.  Wynne  flung  up 
his  arms,  beating  the  air  with  them  like  wings,  to  regain 
his  balance,  but  he  could  not.  An  arm  clutched  out  after 
him,  whether  to  push  or  clasp  him  he  did  not  know.  Half 
spinning  as  he  went,  he  doubled  out  of  sight  backward; 
and  if  anything  were  needed,  apart  from  the  anguish  of 
his  own  mind,  at  that  awful,  inevitable  moment,  to  add  to 
the  horror  of  his  going,  it  was  the  schoolmaster's  long, 
horrid  scream. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

THAT  scream— having  no  part  with  the  man's  self, 
but  tearing  forth  from  him  as  though  it  were  a 
liberated  fiend— curdled  the  schoolmaster's  own  blood. 
This  culminating  horror  of  a  night  of  horrors  took  hold 
upon  the  pillars  of  his  reason,  like  a  blind,  despairing 
Samson,  and  overturned  the  temple  quite.  Before,  he 
had  had  just  the  madness  requisite  to  carry  out  what 
unaided  reason  could  never  have  accomplished ;  but  now, 
madness  filled  him  like  thick,  suffocating  smoke,  and 
extinguished  his  last  guiding  spark  ,of  lucidity.  From 
head  to  foot  he  was  mad ;  mad  with  a  terrorised  madness 
that  is  one  long  mental  scream,  like  the  unrestrained 
scream  of  his  lips.  First,  as  the  man  went  over,  and  his 
own  cry  rang  like  a  terrible  knell  in  his  head,  he  dropped 
to  his  knees,  and  bound  wild  hands  upon  his  eyes,  to  blot 
out  the  horror  from  them.  Again  and  again  and  again, 
with  insufferable  rapidity,  he  saw— for  all  his  binding — 
the  horrid  vision  of  the  Spawer's  beating  arms ;  the  sick- 
ening collapse;  the  sudden  emptiness  of  sky.  Again  and 
again  and  again  his  own  cry  tore  out  in  his  ears.  If  his 
brain  had  been  one  great  slate,  and  this  cry  the  screech 
of  a  perpendicular  pencil  torn  across  it,  it  could  not  have 
scored  it  more  terribly.  All  his  hallucinations  were  re- 
versed and  turned  against  himself.  His  mind  had  no 
mercy  upon  him;  he  was  a  murderer.  This  was  the 
death  that  came  to  him  upon  his  bed.  The  horror  of  now 


THE  POST-GIRL  411 

fitted  the  horror  of  then  like  a  bolt.  He  was  a  murderer, 
fore-ordained.  The  hot  brand  of  Cain  was  on  his  brow. 
Twice  the  fatal  cliff  called  upon  him  to  come  and  look 
over  at  the  scene  of  his  crime,  but  twice  he  heard  the 
surging  of  the  sea  below,  and  twice  he  dared  not.  Then 
the  irresistible  magnetism  of  his  own  murder  drew  him, 
and  he  crept  forth  the  third  time  on  all  fours,  and  peered 
awfully  over  upon  a  small  projecting  shelf  of  the  cliff. 
Close  down  by  the  roaring  surf  the  Spawer  lay  stretched 
on  his  back,  and  looked  with  his  dead  face  up  at  him.  As 
he  had  fallen,  so  he  lay.  His  head  was  to  the  sea;  his 
feet  toward  the  cliff  at  which  they  had  struggled  so  des- 
perately for  hold ;  his  right  hand,  by  the  force  of  rebound, 
had  jumped  across  his  breast,  and  seemed  placed  in  mock- 
ing attestation  upon  his  heart;  his  left  lay  limply  from 
him  without  a  bend,  its  palm  turned  upward,  its  fingers 
partly  closed ;  his  chin  was  thrown  up,  white  and  ghastly ; 
his  face  a  little  sideways  upon  his  cheek,  as  though  in 
renunciation  of  this  dark,  wicked  world,  and  seeking 
slumber.  A  very  different  figure  of  a  fellow,  indeed, 
from  that  proud  six-footer  of  scathing  independence  that 
had  mocked  this  miserable  onlooker  from  above.  And 
yet,  how  terribly  triumphant.  Even  on  his  back,  without 
a  word  between  his  lips,  or  a  look  in  his  eyes,  he  had 
more  of  majesty  at  this  dread  moment  than  life  could 
ever  have  given  him. 

And  so  thought  the  man  who,  blindly  seeking  but  to 
prevail,  had  put  death's  conquering  sceptre  in  his  hands. 
For  the  one  moment  of  his  guilty  gaze  he  saw  with  clear 
eyes,  freed  from  madness— as  people  are  free  from 
worldly  thoughts  that  take  their  look  upon  the  dead. 
But  the  moment  passed,  and  his  madness  descended  upon 


412  THE  POST-GIRL 

him  once  more,  like  the  cloud  of  a  whirlwind.  It  swept 
him  to  his  feet,  and  drove  him  blightingly  before  it — any- 
where away  from  the  scene  of  that  awful  fall  and  cry. 
Before,  he  might  have  killed  himself,  but  now,  with  the 
horror  of  death  before  his  eyes,  and  ringing  in  his  ears, 
he  dared  not  die.  Over  gate  and  by  hedgerow,  through 
field  and  fence;  beating  and  battling  a  mad  passage  for 
his  flight  against  the  armed  hosts  of  standing  corn : 
pitching  blindly  over  stocks  in  the  stubble;  turning  and 
doubling;  falling  headlong  and  regaining  his  feet  with 
terrified  fighting-fists,  as  though  in  conflict  with  unseen 
adversaries,  so  his  madness  drove  him,  like  a  leaf  before 
the  breeze. 


CHAPTER  XL 

OUT  of  the  dark  womb  of  Eternity— and  with  all  the 
penalties  and  discomforts  incidental  to  birth— Mau- 
rice Ethelbert  Wynne  was  born  again. 

With  pangs,  with  anguishes,  with  flashes  of  light,  and 
alternating  darkness;  with  terrible  struggles  to  lay  hold 
of  this  elusive  state  called  life,  that  seemed  floating  some- 
where about  and  above  him,  if  he  only  could  secure  it, 
he  drew  shuddering  breath  of  consciousness  at  last  upon 
his  little  six-foot  couch,  and  saw,  through  tremulous  eye- 
lids that  were  yet  powerless  to  open  themselves,  a  multi- 
tude of  round  things  shining. 

They  were  so  many,  and  their  light  so  marvelously 
great,  that  he  went  off  through  pain  into  darkness  forth- 
with, and  abode  there  for  a  space.  Thence,  after  awhile, 
he  commenced  to  struggle  inwardly  again  for  the  life  he 
had  once  laid  hold  of,  and  groping,  found  it;  and  looked 
through  his  impotent  lashes  once  more,  and  at  once  the 
multitude  of  round  things  shining  fell  in,  and  hurt  him, 
and  a  second  time  he  let  life  go  quite  quietly,  and  re- 
lapsed into  his  darkness.  But  the  taste  for  life,  once 
awakened,  cannot  be  so  inanimately  surrendered.  Cost 
what  cost  in  pain,  lips  will  keep  returning  periodically  to 
the  cup— each  time  with  further  strength  of  fortitude  for 
pain— till  in  the  end  hands  are  strong  to  grasp  and  retain, 
and  life,  sipped  at  first,  is  gulped  with  eager  mouthfuls. 
And  so,  slowly  but  surely,  the  Spawer  returned  again  and 

4*3 


414  THE  POST-GIRL 

again  to  his  multitude  of  hurting  things,  and  looked 
upon  them  diligently,  and  patiently  learned  their  shape, 
and  studied  them,  and  knew  them  in  the  end  for  moons. 
Vague,  shadowy  remembrances  of  a  former  life,  or  pre- 
monitory forecasts  of  the  life  he  was  now  about  to  live, 
floated— not  in  his  mind,  for  he  had  as  yet  no  concen- 
trated point  of  consciousness  that  could  be  called  a  mind 
—but,  dispersed  and  uncollected,  all  about  the  dark  void 
of  his  being.  Names  that  he  did  not  know  for  names 
flitted  hauntingly  about  him,  like  bats— names  that,  as 
though  he  were  a  mere  baby,  he  had  not  the  strength  or 
the  capacity  to  utter,  but  that  he  somehow  recognised  and 
knew.  One  name,  in  particular,  came  to  him  in  his  dusky 
sojourn,  and  abode  with  him ;  a  blessed,  dove-like  mes- 
senger of  a  name,  whose  presence  was  peace.  When  it 
departed  from  him  he  was  troubled,  and  sought  for  it, 
as  a  blind  kitten  seeks  after  the  breast.  When  he  found 
it  again  he  was  content  with  his  darkness;  quite  content 
to  lie  and  be  conscious  that  he  was  alive. 

Then,  to  names  succeeded  shapeless  dreams ;  after- 
shadowings  or  forecastings,  as  the  case  might  be, 
snatched  by  violence  from  Eternity,  and  bringing  him 
pain.  Shadowy  figures  in  conflict  he  seemed  to  see ;  men 
running;  men  pursuing;  men  wrestling;  men  falling — 
not  men,  as  men  are,  but  men  as  his  infant  mind  con- 
ceived them,  dark  and  formless  and  blurred;  men  like 
trees  walking,  whose  movements  disturbed  him  painfully ; 
men  crying;  men  screaming.  When  they  screamed,  in- 
stinctively he  sought  the  shelter  of  darkness  once  more, 
for  he  could  not  bear  the  sound  of  that  scream.  It 
frightened  him  from  life.  Yet  after  awhile,  he  would  be 
back  at  the  moons  again,  nibbling  at  them  industriously 


THE  POST-GIRL  415 

with  his  intelligence,  like  a  mouse  at  cheese.  They  were 
moons  now,  he  knew  quite  well.  He  did  not  know  them 
as  such  by  name,  but  he  understood  the  substance  of  the 
things  seen,  and  thus  feeding  on  them  and  deriving  nour- 
ishment, his  consciousness  thrived.  One  by  one  it  dif- 
fused itself  through  the  darkened  channels  and  subways 
of  his  being.  It  reached  his  ears,  and  he  heard  a  great 
buzzing,  and  a  roaring  and  a  beating— as  though  all  his 
brain  were  being  churned  within  him.  It  reached  his 
limbs,  and  his  being  strove  to  stir  them,  and  after  many 
trials  succeeded  insignificantly,  whereupon,  with  his  lips 
he  groaned.  Centuries  thus,  it  seemed,  he  floated,  a  mere 
helpless  log  upon  the  tide  of  existence,  clutching  at  things 
he  could  not  hold,  bumping  against  consciousness  for 
moments  at  a  time,  and  being  drifted  off  again  into  the 
dark ;  in  reality  it  was  scarcely  minutes.  Then,  of  a  sud- 
den, something  icy  cold  and  wet  fell  with  a  rude  slap  over 
his  face. 

The  shock  roused  him,  and  the  coldness  contracted 
spasmodically  the  relaxed  tissues  of  his  thinking.  All 
his  brain,  diffused  hitherto  vastly  throughout  space, 
seemed  to  shrink  up  at  that  Arctic  contact,  like  metal  in 
a  mould,  and  occupy  the  narrow  limits  of  his  head,  throb- 
bing painfully  at  the  restriction  imposed  upon  it. 
Thought,  in  this  cramped  environment,  became  agonis- 
ingly conjested.  His  head  was  a  sort  of  Black  Hole  of 
Calcutta,  in  which  thought  seethed  for  outlet.  Where 
one  idea  before  had  attenuated  itself  throughout  the  cen- 
turies, now  centuries  of  thinking  were  compressed  insuf- 
ferably within  the  space  of  one  moment.  Life,  that  had 
been  unoccupied,  teemed  all  at  once  with  the  fever  of 
activity.  A  hundred  incidents  seemed  in  progress  within 


416  THE  POST-GIRL 

him  at  one  and  the  same  instant.  His  lips  were  useless 
to  him  for  speaking,  but  from  somewhere  in  his  throat 
came  a  voice  that  poured  out  from  him  unceasingly,  as 
though  it  were  a  tap,  accompanying  with  narrative  the 
course  of  events.  Still,  though  all  the  forces  of  life  and 
thought  were  humming  at  high  pressure  inside  him,  was 
he  powerless  to  burst  the  fetters  of  his  body.  Like  an 
iron  man  he  lay,  with  his  one  arm  extended,  and  his  one 
arm  bent,  and  his  chin  thrown  upward,  and  his  legs 
stretching  from  him  to  their  limp  extremities — miles  and 
miles  and  miles  away.  Over  and  over  again  in  mind  he 
got  the  victory  over  this  unresponsive  flesh,  and  rose  with 
it,  and  looked  about  him  at  the  encompassing  multitude 
of  moons ;  and  over  and  over  again  his  mind  returned  de- 
jectedly to  its  recumbent  habitation,  and  knew  itself  de- 
luded. The  desire  for  movement  was  become  a  night- 
mare. All  his  being  wrought  in  motionless  agony  to 
wake  up  his  dead  limbs  to  life,  as  his  soul  had  been 
wakened.  The  horror  of  this  inactivity  grew  upon  him 
and  focussed  itself  to  a  great,  loud,  liberative  cry  that 
should  cut  his  bonds  like  a  knife  and  loose  him  from  this 
awful  lethargy.  But  though  the  cry  was  within  him,  all 
prepared,  his  lips  could  not  utter  it.  He  was  lead- 
weighted;  feet,  hands,  legs,  eyelids— not  a  member  to  help 
him. 

And  then  the  cold  wetness  fell  upon  his  face  and  fore- 
head a  second  time,  and  with  a  terrible  spasm  of  anguish 
he  pushed  his  cry.  All  heaven  seemed  to  ring  with  it  in  his 
tortured  imagination;  he  could  not  have  conceived  that 
the  bulk  of  his  effort  had  been  wasted  mentally  before  it 
reached  his  lips,  and  that  the  residue  of  physical  impulse 
would  scarcely  have  sufficed  to  deflate  a  kitten's  lungs. 


THE  POST-GIRL  417 

Just  another  cry  or  two  like  this,  thought  he,  as  he  rested 
from  the  exertion  of  it,  and  he  would  burst  forth  from 
his  bondage  and  be  free. 

And  again,  with  titanic  intention,  and  the  merest  inap- 
preciable flattening  of  his  diaphragm,  he  launched  his 
pitiable  mew. 

And  this  time  it  suddenly  seemed  to  him  that  he  had 
awakened  some  external  sympathy  on  his  behalf;  that 
other  forces  were  being  brought  to  bear  upon  him  from 
without— how,  or  whence,  or  why,  he  knew  not.  Voices 
— or  his  mental  equivalent  for  voices — seemed  disturbing 
the  atmosphere  of  his  being ;  besieging  him,  trying  to  lay 
hold  upon  his  voice  and  give  him  a  ladder  to  outer  life. 
The  moons  too,  as  he  stared  at  them  through  his  eye- 
lashes, appeared  moving  about  in  agitated  disorder  this 
way  and  that  above  the  high  wall  of  blackness  that 
fronted  him.  Then,  something  detached  itself  from  the 
wall-top,  and  slid  downward  with  a  rattle.  He  was  here ! 
He  was  here  !  Did  n't  they  see  him  ?  In  went  his  stomach 
feebly  again,  and  he  ejected  his  agonised  sigh.  And 
while  desperately  he  sought  to  aid  the  outer  assistance, 
and  proclaim  his  dire  need— of  a  sudden  his  attitude 
changed.  The  moons  swam  backward  overhead,  the 
black  wall  rose  above  his  sight.  What  his  paralysed 
limbs  had  failed  to  accomplish  of  themselves,  was  being 
accomplished  for  them.  Arms  were  under  his  neck, 
hands  were  beating  his  cheeks,  voices  were  calling  upon 
him. 

And  all  at  once,  with  a  great  spasm,  his  eyes  rolled 
round  into  their  right  position— it  seemed  he  had  been 
gazing  out  of  the  backs  of  them  this  while — and  the 
blindness  fell  away  from  him  like  the  stone  of  a  sepul- 

27 


4i8  THE  POST-GIRL 

chre ;  and  his  ears  burst  open ;  and  the  calling  voice  came 
clearly  through  into  his  understanding.  , 

Oh,  surely  that  was  Pam's  dear  voice !  None  other  in 
the  world  would  have  had  sweet  power  to  penetrate  such 
a  darkness  as  his.  And  his  lips  dissolved,  that  had 
seemed  glued  inseparably  together,  and  let  him  move 
them  over  the  girl's  name. 

".     .  Pam  .      ."he  said. 


CHAPTER  XLI 

YES,  it  was  Pam's  own  self  that  knelt  beside  him  and 
sustained  him,  her  arms  wound  supportingly  about 
his  helpless  body,  his  head  on  her  knee,  and  shed  tears  of 
warm  thankfulness  over  his  lifted  face,  and  caressed  him 
eagerly  with  her  voice. 

"I  thought  you  were  dead  .  .  ."  she  said  tremulously. 

His  response  flickered  elusively  to  and  fro  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  Spawer's  being,  like  sunlight  deep  down  a 
well;  but  he  merely  watched  it  with  curious  philosophic 
content,  as  though  quite  sufficiently  satisfied  to  know  that 
it  was  there. 

"Where  am  I?"  he  inquired  listlessly,  after  a  moment, 
and  then,  out  of  sheer  gratitude  to  the  girl,  without  wait- 
ing to  be  told,  subsided  into  peaceful  slumber  upon  her 
knee. 

So  long  as  she  was  there  to  hold  him  and  nurse  his 
head,  what  more  could  a  man  want  ?  To  sleep  with  Pam 
for  pillow  ...  ye  gods !  But  his  period  of  blissful  obliv- 
ion was  short.  The  beating  and  the  calling  recommenced, 
and  he  was  forced  into  opening  his  reluctant  eyes. 

"You  must  not  .  .  ."  he  heard  the  girl  beseech  him. 
"Oh,  indeed,  you  must  not !  Try  to  come  to  yourself.  Are 
you  hurt  ?  Do  you  think  you  can  stand  ?" 

He  heard  the  questions  plainly  enough— in  his  grave 
he  would  have  heard  questions  that  that  voice  put  to  him 
—but  their  import  excited  him  little.  What  did  anything 

419 


420  THE  POST-GIRL 

matter,  so  long  as  Pam  was  with  him?  She  would  look 
to  everything.  Trust  Pam.  All  he  did  was  to  dwell 
pleasantly  upon  the  sound  of  her  voice  inside,  and  seek  to 
slumber  to  it,  as  a  child  is  soothed  by  singing.  But  though 
his  soul  longed  for  this  peace,  she  would  not  grant  it,  but 
plied  her  questions  anew  with  strange,  inexplicable  un- 
rest. He  had  never  known  Pam  so  unrestful. 

"Are  you  hurt?  Do  you  think  .  .  .  you  can  get  up 
...  if  I  lift  you?  Shall  I  lift  you?  Will  you  let  me  lift 
you?" 

He  fished  about  listlessly  for  a  moment  or  two  in  the 
depths  of  his  well,  and  brought  up  the  word  "Eh,"  as 
being  both  easy  to  catch  and  to  utter. 

"Eh?"  he  said,  without  the  slightest  desire  to  be  told 
for  information's  sake,  and  made  as  though  once  more  to 
settle  his  head. 

But  she  rubbed  his  cheeks  vigorously  with  her  hand, 
and  roused  him  with  her  voice  anew. 

"Oh,  please,  please  .  .  ."  he  heard  her  beg  him,  with 
tears.  "Try  to  wake  up  now  and  answer  me.  Don't  go 
back  again.  You  must  n't  go  back  again.  Do  you  think 
you  can  stand  if  I  lift  you?  Do  you?" 

"Where  am  I?"  he  asked  again,  in  the  same  apathetic 
voice. 

He  did  n't  care  where  he  was.  Wherever  he  was,  Pam 
was  with  him.  That  was  good  enough  for  his  taste.  He 
merely  wanted  her  to  nurse  him,  and  soothe  him,  and  lull 
him.  All  speculation,  all  curiosity,  had  been  knocked  out 
of  him  by  his  fall.  The  heavens  might  have  opened  now, 
and  the  sight  of  angels  descending  would  have  caused  him 
no  wonder. 

"You  are  down  the  cliff!"  Pam  told  him,  shouting  the 


THE  POST-GIRL  421 

words  in  his  ear,  with  the  twofold  object  of  reaching 
his  remote  understanding  and  rousing  him  by  sheer 
strenuousness  of  voice.  "You  must  have  fallen.  Don't 
you  know  what  's  happened  ?  Can't  you  remember  ?" 

He  was  down  the  cliff.  He  must  have  fallen.  Did  n't 
he  know  what  had  happened?  Could  n't  he  remember? 
Of  a  sudden — yes,  of  course  he  could  remember.  He  was 
down  the  cliff.  He  must  have  fallen.  The  schoolmaster 
had  pushed  him.  He  'd  been  fighting  with  the  school- 
master in  a  dream,  and  got  pushed  over.  What  did  it 
matter — a  dream?  He  'd  often  got  pushed  over  in 
dreams. 

"Can't  you  remember?"  came  back  to  him,  in  echo  of 
the  girl's  voice,  and  he  told  her:  "Yes,  he  could  remem- 
ber." Furthermore,  to  prove  his  good  intentions,  he  asked 
her  with  his  eyes  shut :  "Where  are  the  moons  ?" 

"There  's  only  one,"  the  girl  shouted  into  his  ear. 

"That  all  ?"  he  said,  fishing  hazily  for  the  words  as  be- 
fore. 

"It  's  up  there — there  in  the  sky."  She  let  down  his 
head  a  little,  so  that  the  moon  might  come  into  his  line  of 
vision.  "There  ...  do  you  see  it?" 

He  saw  it  and  shut  his  eyes,  turning  his  head  away 
from  the  light. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  and  added  a  dreamy  "Thank  you." 

Something  boomed  out  behind  him,  and  he  saw  the 
girl's  hand  go  up  defensively  above  his  head.  Next  mo- 
ment cold  trickles  were  wriggling  down  his  face.  Some 
rested  on  his  eyelashes  and  blurred  the  moonlight. 

"What  's  that?"  he  asked  complacently. 

"It 's  the  sea  .  .  ."  the  girl  cried  into  his  ear,  and  wiped 
the  wet  tenderly  from  his  face  and  lashes  with  an  end  of 


422  THE  POST-GIRL 

sleeve  drawn  into  her  palm  by  her  fingers.  ''The  tide  is 
coming  up.  We  must  not  stay  here  any  longer.  We  shall 
be  drowned  if  we  do." 

"Oh!"  he  said.  Drowned,  would  they?  What  was 
drowning  to  a  man  who  had  been  dead  ?  And  then,  quite 
irrelevantly — its  irrelevancy  even  puzzled  himself,  in  a 
placid  kind  of  way — "are  there  any  mushrooms?" 

"Oh,  yes,  yes,"  the  girl  told  him  eagerly.  "Lots  and 
lots  of  them.  But  not  down  here;  up  at  the  top.  We 
must  get  up  to  the  top  first." 

"I  'm  the  boy  for  mushrooms,"  he  said,  and  thought  he 
smiled  knowingly,  but  it  was  only  his  inside  that  smiled. 
The  face  of  him  never  moved  a  muscle. 

"See  ...  I  am  going  to  lift  you!"  the  girl  shouted. 
"Let  me  put  my  arm  about  you  .  .  .  like  that.  Yes.  And 
now  like  this.  Now  ...  so.  Do  I  hurt  you  ?" 

My  Heaven !  Did  she  hurt  him  ?  The  groan  that  fol- 
lowed needed  no  conscious  bidding  to  find  the  outlet  of 
his  lips.  His  immobile  face  was  broken  suddenly  into 
seams  of  pain,  like  the  cracking  of  a  cast. 

"Oh  .  .  .  my  poor  darling!  My  poor  darling!"  the  girl 
cried,  lowering  him  a  little,  in  an  agony  scarcely  less  than 
his  own,  and  the  tears  started  from  her  fast.  "Have  I 
hurt  you?  I  did  n't  want  to  hurt  you.  But  we  can't  stay 
here.  However  much  it  hurts  we  can't  stay  here.  We 
must  get  you  moved.  I  can't  let  you  drown  for  the  sake 
of  a  little  pain.  Come !  try  again.  You  '11  help  me,  won't 
you?  Now.  Is  that  better?  Is  that  better?  Am  I  hurt- 
ing you  now  ?" 

And  again  she  raised  him.  In  a  measure  the  first  pain 
had  paved  the  way  for  a  second,  and  being  prepared  for 
it  this  time,  by  twisting  his  face  he  was  enabled  to  bear 


THE  POST- GIRL  423 

the  lifting;  but  it  was  agony.  Such  complete  change  of 
posture  seemed  to  shake  up  all  the  dormant  dregs  of  his 
discomfort,  like  the  lees  of  a  bottle.  His  body  was  be- 
come no  more  than  a  mere  flagon,  for  the  contents  of 
mortal  anguish.  His  heart  beat  as  though  it  had  been 
knocked  loose  by  the  fall.  All  the  inside  of  his  head  had 
been  dislodged,  and  bumped  sickeningly  against  the  walls 
of  his  skull.  His  ribs  were  hot  gridirons.  His  back  was 
on  fire.  But  at  least  he  stood  unsteadily  upright.  Within 
the  compass  of  the  girl's  arms— as  once,  on  that  first  night 
of  their  meeting,  she  had  been  within  his — he  stood  rock- 
ing helplessly  to  and  fro;  his  knees  trembling  treacher- 
ously beneath  him,  only  saved  from  sinking  by  the  up- 
lifting power  of  the  girl's  embrace.  Suddenly  it  seemed 
to  him,  with  a  warning  buzz  in  his  ears,  that  the  darkness 
was  coming  on  again.  A  great  weakness  crept  over  him 
and  enfolded  him. 

"Let  me  ...  sit  down  .  .  ."  he  said  faintly.  He 
thought  that  by  sitting  he  might  elude  the  enveloping  em- 
brace of  the  darkness. 

"No,  no;  not  here.  Not  just  here  .  .  ."  the  girl  im- 
plored him.  "Not  so  near  the  edge.  Try  and  walk. 
Please!  .  .  ." 

And  then  the  darkness  closed  upon  him  swiftly,  as  he 
stood  in  her  arms,  like  a  great  engulfing  fish. 

But  it  disgorged  him,  almost  at  once.  It  seemed  his 
own  pain  deterred  it.  And  slowly,  what  time  he  suffered 
untold  agonies  of  body,  the  girl  half  pushed,  half  carried 
him  from  the  perilous  edge  of  their  narrow  shelf,  toward 
the  cliff  side ;  weeping  to  herself  for  the  pain  she  knew 
she  was  inflicting ;  talking  all  the  while  to  interpose  her 
soft,  tender  voice  between  himself  and  the  keen  edge  of 


424  THE  POST-GIRL 

his  suffering.  Did  she  hurt  him  now  ?  That  was  better, 
was  n't  it?  Oh,  that  was  beautiful!  Just  another  step 
like  that.  And  now  just  one  more.  And  now  just  one 
to  finish.  And  now  just  a  little  one  to  bring  him  round 
here.  And  got  him  propped  up  in  the  end — though 
Heaven  knows  how — with  his  back  against  the  ugly  black 
slope  of  cliff,  and  his  face  towards  the  sea,  that  bit  with 
raging  white  teeth  against  the  miserable  crust  of  their 
refuge,  and  roared  and  snarled  mercilessly  for  their 
devourance. 

And  there,  resting  awhile,  with  the  assistance  of  his  own 
pain  that  had  roused  him,  and  the  stern  sight  he  saw,  the 
girl  assiduously  coaxed  and  fretted,  and  rubbed  his  apa- 
thetic consciousness,  like  a  cold  hand,  till  it  returned  at 
last  some  vital  warmth  of  understanding.  As  far  as  his 
loosened  brain  would  allow,  all  the  doings  of  this  night 
came  back  to  him,  remotely  remembered.  Through  clouds 
of  intervening  suffering  he  called  back  his  quarrel  with 
the  schoolmaster ;  the  words,  even,  that  had  been  uttered ; 
his  horrid  plunge  over  the  cliff,  and  that  sickening  arrest 
at  the  bottom.  And  before  these  things  had  happened, 
came  back  to  him  his  love  for  the  girl,  and  his  loss  of  her ; 
his  resolution  and  his  irresolution;  his  night's  packing, 
and  the  letters  he  had  received.  Even  it  occurred  to  him 
that  the  big  lamp  would  be  still  burning— unless  its  oil 
were  exhausted  by  now.  It  was  all  unreal  and  incom- 
prehensible, but  he  remembered  it  and  never  doubted. 
This  was  no  new  life,  but  the  old — to  whose  jagged  splin- 
ters of  breakage  he  was  being  so  painfully  spliced.  What 
a  wonder  his  breakage  had  n't  been  beyond  all  repair ! 
How  on  earth  had  he  come,  neck  downwards  from  that 
great  height— a  height  it  would  have  sickened  him  to  con- 


THE  POST- GIRL  425 

template  jumping— and  yet  been  spared  ?  The  mill  of  his 
mind  ground  slowly,  by  fits  and  starts,  and  not  over-fine. 
All  its  mechanism  seemed  dislocated  and  rusty  and  out  of 
order;  in  mid-thought  it  would  be  brought  up  suddenly 
with  a  horrid  jolt  that  seemed  like  taking  his  head  off. 
The  noise  of  its  working,  too,  was  almost  deafening. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  he  asked  vaguely,  all  at 
once,  of  the  girl,  who,  with  one  arm  about  him,  was  see- 
ing how  far  he  might  be  trusted  to  keep  his  own  balance 
against  the  cliff.  It  was  a  question  that  had  been  glim- 
mering at  the  bottom  of  his  well  for  some  time  past — 
only,  so  far,  he  had  never  been  able  to  perceive  clearly 
why  she  should  not  be  here  as  well  as  anywhere  else.  But 
now  the  strangeness  of  her  presence  forced  itself  upon 
him. 

"I  was  on  the  cliff  .  .  ."  she  said,  speaking  in  quick 
gasps,  as  the  result  of  her  exertion,  "and  heard  you  fall. 
At  least  ...  I  heard  you  cry  out.  You  cried  out  .  .  . 
did  n't  you  ?  as  you  fell." 

"Yes  .  .  ."  he  admitted  slowly,  for  the  mills  of  thought 
were  grinding  again,  and  he  knew  whose  cry  had  brought 
him  succor.  Murderous,  cowardly  cur !  Friction  of  anger 
set  up  in  his  mind  and  heated  him— who  knows?  .  .  . 
perhaps  for  his  own  good.  Anything,  only  to  rouse  him. 

The  girl  shuddered  at  that  cry's  remembrance. 

"...  I  heard  you.  I  was  by  the  boat  .  .  .  and  I  knew 
something  dreadful  had  happened  .  .  .  and  ran  back,  and 
looked  over  the  cliff  .  .  .  and  saw  you,  and  scrambled 
down  to  you.  But  we  must  n't  waste  time.  Not  a  mo- 
ment. If  once  the  tide  gets  over  here.  ...  Do  you  think 
you  can  let  me  leave  you  ...  for  a  minute  ?  I  must  find 
a  way  up  the  cliff.  So."  She  withdrew  her  hand  from 


426  THE  POST-GIRL 

him,  holding  it  outstretched,  however,  for  a  moment,  with 
fingers  close  upon  him,  in  case  he  might  show  any  dan- 
gerous subsidence.  But  he  did  not.  "Are  you  all  right 
now?  Do  you  think  you  can  keep  just  like  that?" 

He  assured  her  he  was  all  right,  and  could  keep  just 
like  that.  He  was  by  no  means  convinced  in  his  own 
mind  that  such  was  the  case,  but  he  felt  his  acquiescence 
due  to  the  girl,  and  gave  it. 

And  she»  with  a  final  adjusting  touch  of  finger,  that 
was  a  caress  all  told,  consigned  him  timidly  to  his  own 
insecure  care,  and  turned  her  energy  upon  the  cliff. 

Even  as  she  looked  up  its  black,  forbidding  side,  smooth 
and  sheer,  and  clayey  with  the  recent  rains— and  remem- 
bered the  desperate  abandon  of  her  descent— her  heart 
forsook  her.  Calmly,  first  of  all— trying  to  stimulate  her 
bosom  to  courage  by  deliberateness  of  action— she  sought 
of  the  cliff  for  some  mode  of  ascent;  desperately,  after 
awhile,  when  none  forthcame,  flinging  herself  at  the  slimy 
earth,  kicking  with  feet  for  a  foothold — that  slid  down 
with  her  when  she  used  it,  as  though  she  had  been  trying 
to  scale  butter ;  tearing  with  her  hands  at  straggling  tufts 
of  grass,  that  pulled  out  by  the  wet  roots,  soft  and  sod- 
den—struggling, scrambling,  fighting. 

And  at  last  the  fearful  truth  was  borne  in  upon  her— 
or  perhaps,  more  accurately,  the  seal  was  put  upon  the 
truth  that  her  bosom  had  secreted  when  she  sacrificed  her- 
self over  the  cliff-edge  for  this  man's  saving — and  with 
tears,  not  of  terror,  but  of  bitter  defeat,  she  came  back  to 
him.  Oh,  the  agony  of  that  confession !  Yet  with  death 
so  close  upon  them,  it  was  no  moment  to  offer  the  cup  of 
false  hopes.  However  she  tried  to  screen  the  knowledge 
from  him,  death  would  shortly  tell  him  everything. 


THE  POST- GIRL  427 

"It  is  no  use  .  .  ."  she  said,  her  tears  streaming,  her 
hands  all  muddied,  that  she  wiped  hopelessly  on  her 
skirts.  "...  I  can  find  no  way." 

"Oh,"  he  said,  so  apathetically,  that  for  a  moment  she 
thought  he  had  not  understood.  But  it  was  only  the  mills 
that  were  grinding. 

"It  is  all  my  fault,"  the  girl  burst  out  bitterly.  "If  I 
had  run  to  the  Dixons'  at  once  .  .  .  they  would  have 
been  here  now  ...  and  saved  you.  But  I  never  thought. 
I  was  in  such  a  hurry.  .  .  .  Oh,  forgive  me  .  .  .  forgive 
me,  please !" 

And  into  her  hands,  for  the  man's  sake,  she  sobbed  as 
though  her  heart  would  have  burst.  It  was  so  dreadful 
for  him  to  be  lost  like  this,  when  she  had  been  so  near  to 
saving  him.  For  herself  it  mattered  nothing,  who  had  so 
little  to  lose.  And  though  she  strove  to  extinguish  the 
thought,  there  was  a  kind  of  proud,  defiant  exultation  at 
being  drowned  in  such  company.  Oh,  God  forgive  her 
such  wicked  thinking!  Her  heart,  so  anguished  during 
these  latter  days,  could  not,  in  its  wildest  moments,  have 
wished  a  more  companionable  death  than  this. 

After  awhile,  the  mills  of  the  man's  mind,  slowly  mov- 
ing, ground  a  little  grist  for  his  lips  to  get  rid  of. 

".  .  .  Can  you  get  up  the  cliff  by  yourself,  if  you  leave 
me?" 

He  seemed  to  be  talking  to  her  out  of  the  closed  cham- 
ber of  dreams.  What  he  uttered  reached  her,  indeed,  but 
there  was  something  between  them  yet,  like  a  wall,  that 
both  were  sensible  of. 

"But  I  would  not  ...  I  would  not !"  she  cried  impetu- 
ously. 

"But  could  you?" 


428  THE  POST- GIRL 

"No,  no,  no  ...  I  could  not !" 

"Are  you  quite  sure  ?" 

"Quite.    I  could  not.    Indeed,  I  could  not." 

"Shall  we  both  be  drowned?"  he  inquired. 

To  the  girl  the  question  came  with  a  callousness  almost 
brutal.  Moreover,  it  cut  her  to  the  quick  to  hear  how  this 
fall  had  blunted  the  keen  edge  of  the  man's  susceptibil- 
ities. It  was  as  though  another  being  of  an  altogether  in- 
ferior calibre  were  usurping  his  body.  Oh,  that  for  their 
last  agonised  moments  together  this  terrible  dull  veil 
might  be  rent,  and  for  dying  happiness  she  might  know 
him  as  she  had  known  him  in  the  past !  And  for  this  she 
maintained  her  weeping.  But  inside,  the  man  was  stoking 
up  the  furnace  of  his  mills  with  desperate  activity,  to  get 
work  out  of  hand  before  this  last.  He,  too,  was  filled 
with  ripe  grain  of  thought  to  be  ground,  and  knew  how 
bruised  and  blunted  he  was — and  how  little  near  he  could 
place  his  thoughts  to  the  thoughts  of  the  girl. 

"What  were  you  doing  ...  on  the  cliff  ?"  he  asked 
laboriously. 

All  his  within  was  striving  to  find  a  short  cut  to  some- 
where, but  his  mouth  would  not  let  him. 

"...  I  was  going  away." 

"Oh!    Whereto?" 

".  .  .  Anywhere.  To  Hunmouth  .  .  .  round  by 
Garthston." 

"Why  were  you  going  anywhere  ?" 

"Because  .  .  .  because  .  .  .  did  n't  you  get  the  letters  ? 
I  left  them  on  the  piano." 

"Oh,  yes ;  the  letters.  I  read  them.  But  I  did  n't  ... 
know  them."  "Know  them"  was  n't  what  he  wanted  to 
say,  and  he  struggled  for  a  moment  to  find  the  requisite 


THE  POST-GIRL  429 

expression,  but  his  mills  were  not  equal  to  it.  "I  did  n't 
.  .  .  know  them,"  he  repeated  vaguely. 

"Oh  .  .  .  because  .  .  .  because  .  .  ." 

And  thereupon  the  girl  plunged  into  the  shameful  deeps 
of  her  wickedness,  and  made  confession.  A  hurried  con- 
fession it  was,  for  time  pressed,  but  she  cried  it  in  its  en- 
tirety into  his  ear— shielding  nothing  but  the  absent  man 
.  .  .  and  her  love. 

And  the  mills  of  the  Spawer's  mind  thumped  faster. 

"I  want  ...  to  ask  you  something,"  he  said  slowly. 
"...  before  I  die." 

"Yes  .  .  .  yes."  The  girl  was  at  his  lips  in  a  moment, 
to  catch  their  precious  outpouring  before  death  should 
stop  her  hearing  for  ever.  "Ask  me.  I  am  here." 

"I  want  to  ask  you  .  .  ."  he  said.  "You  know  why  I 
was  going  back.  The  other  letter  was  .  .  .  from  Her. 
She  asks  me  to  set  her  free.  If  there  had  n't  been  .  .  . 
been  any  other  one  in  the  case,  and  I  'd  asked  you  .  .  . 
to  marry  me  .  .  .  would  you  have  married  me  ?" 

And  in  an  instant  the  girl's  arms  were  about  the  man's 
neck,  and  her  lips  upon  his  lips,  as  though  they  would 
have  sucked  the  poor  remaining  life  out  of  his  body  into 
her  own,  and  given  it  an  abiding  habitation. 

"Oh  .  .  .  my  love,  my  love !"  the  girl  wept,  through  the 
wet  lips  that  clung  to  him.  "What  do  I  care  about  dying 
now?  I  would  rather  a  thousand  times  die  to  learn  that 
you  had  loved  me  .  .  .  than  live  and  never  know  it." 

And  she  poured  her  streams  of  warm  tears  over  his 
face,  and  wrapped  him  about  with  her  arms,  and  bound 
her  body  upon  him.  And  in  the  fusion  of  that  mighty 
love,  the  laboring  mills  of  the  man's  mind  burst  free. 

"Why  did  you  come  down  to  me?"  he  cried.     "For 


430  THE  POST-GIRL 

God's  sake  get  away  while  you  have  the  chance.  I  'm  not 
worth  saving  now  .  .  .  I  'm  only  the  fragments  of  a  man. 
.  .  .  But  you!" 

For  all  answer  she  bound  him  in  tighter  bondage  of 
protection,  as  though  she  were  trying  to  steep  their  souls 
so  deep  in  the  transport  of  love  that  they  should  not  know 
death  or  its  agony. 

"If  you  leave  me  .  .  ."  he  urged  upon  her,  "and  get  up 
the  cliff  .  .  .  there  may  still  be  time." 

But  she  clung  to  him. 

"For  my  sake,  then !"  he  implored  her.  "You  are  my 
last  hope  of  safety.  For  the  love  of  me,  try  and  do  it. 
We  must  not  die  like  this." 

And  for  his  sake,  with  her  old  desperate  hopes  falsely 
revived,  she  redoubled  kisses  of  farewell  upon  his  mouth 
and  lips,  and  threw  herself  passionately  against  the  relent- 
less wet  wall  of  their  prison.  Now  this  side,  and  now 
that.  Now  trying  to  kick  out  steps  with  her  feet;  now 
trying  to  tear  them  with  her  hands,  she  wrought  at  this 
frantic  enterprise,  and  the  man  watched  her,  and  knew  it 
to  be  of  no  avail.  And  then,  at  his  urging,  she  cried  out 
—lifted  her  own  white  face  to  the  sullen  black  face  of  the 
cliff,  and  cried — cried  with  words,  and  rent  the  air  with 
inarticulate  screams.  But  all  was  one.  Like  a  thick 
blanket  the  cliff,  so  close  upon  her,  muffled  her  mouth  and 
smothered  the  voice  that  issued  from  her. 

"It  's  no  use  ...  no  use,"  she  said,  and  came  back  to 
the  man. 

And  at  the  same  moment  the  cruel,  horrible  sea,  that 
had  been  boiling  turbulently  about  the  far  brink  of  their 
ledge,  with  occasional  casts  of  foam,  thundered  against 
the  cliff,  as  though  to  the  collected  impulse  of  intent,  and 


THE  POST-GIRL  431 

rushed  up,  roaring,  and  gained  the  summit  of  their 
slender  refuge  at  last,  and  curled  a  scornful,  devastating 
lip  of  water  over  it.  They  stood  for  a  moment  like 
marble,  the  two  of  them,  at  this  clear  message  from  the 
mouth  of  death ;  watching  the  water  slide  back  after  the 
retreating  wave,  and  pour  away  at  either  side  of  their 
earthen  shelf  amid  an  appalling  effervescence,  and  then 
the  girl  woke  up  again. 

"It  will  not  be  long  .  .  .  now,"  she  said,  very  quietly. 

Then  she  went  to  the  man  and  laced  her  arms  about 
him — 

"Promise  me  .  .  ."  she  said,  "you  will  not  ...  let  go 
of  me  .  .  .  when  the  time  conies." 

"I  promise  you,"  the  man  answered,  very  huskily. 

"May  I  call  you  .  .  .  Maurice  .  .  .  before  we  die?" 
she  asked,  and  her  voice  faltered  at  this. 

"Please  .  .  ."  he  begged  her;  and  she  said  "Maurice" 
a  time  or  two. 

"Hold  me  ...  Maurice,"  she  said.  "I  may  .  .  .  turn 
coward  ...  at  the  end  .  .  .  but  hold  me.  Don't  let  me 
go.  I  want  to  die  with  you." 

"I  will  hold  you,"  he  answered,  and  their  arms  tight- 
ened. 

And  again  the  sea  thundered,  and  this  time  something 
swirled  about  their  feet.  Then  they  asked  forgiveness  of 
each  other  for  inasmuch  as  they  had  offended,  and  re- 
ceived the  sacrament  of  each  other's  pardon. 

And  there  being  nothing  else  to  do,  they  stood  and 
waited  for  death. 


CHAPTER  XLII 

ON  this  same  eventful  evening,  the  absent  Barclay  o' 
Far  Wrangham  returned  to  himself  by  slow  stages 
from  nowhere  in  particular,  at  some  vague,  indeterminate 
point  between  Hunmouth,  Sproutgreen,  and  Ullbrig, 
having  missed  Tankard's  'bus  by  a  small  matter  of  two 
days  and  one  night. 

Out  of  five  golden  sovereigns  that  had  gone  forth  with 
him,  he  retained  a  halfpenny,  which,  wedged  tight  in  the 
corner  of  his  trouser's  pocket,  kept  troubling  him  like  a 
conscience  at  times.  On  his  head  was  a  brimless  hat  that 
some  friendly  cattle-drover  had  exchanged  with  him  on 
Saturday.  A  tramp  had  picked  up  his  overcoat  and  was 
walking  the  high  road  to  London  in  it ;  but  Barclay  o'  Far 
Wrangham  still  retained  the  new  waggon-rope  that  had 
been  one  of  his  early  purchases  in  Hunmouth  market  on 
his  arrival;  and  with  this  over  his  shoulder  he  lurched 
onward.  He  possessed  not  the  faintest  idea  of  destina- 
tion, but  his  legs  shambled  along  with  him  instinctively, 
like  horses  that  knew  their  road.  They  took  him  safely 
across  fields,  and  over  stiles,  and  along  hedges,  and  down 
narrow  pathways  between  standing  corn,  and  through 
gates— that  he  hung  over  affectionately  and  went  through 
all  the  most  conscientious  formulae  of  shutting,  and  still 
left  open  behind  him.  Somewhere  short  of  Sproutgreen 
he  perceived  a  figure  coming  distantly  down  the  road  in 
his  direction.  At  a  hundred  yards  away  or  more  he  made 
elaborate  preparations  for  its  greeting ;  wiped  his  mouth ; 


THE  POST-GIRL  433 

let  down  the  waggon-rope  to  the  ground,  trailing  it  loosely 
by  an  end ;  took  his  hat  off  and  reversed  it ;  rubbed  the 
cobwebs  from  his  eyes,  and  held  out  an  arm  like  a  sign- 
post in  attitude  of  friendly  surprise.  There  had  been  a 
word  in  his  mouth,  too,  for  welcome ;  only  it  slipped  him 
at  the  last  moment,  but  he  made  an  amicable  bellowing 
instead. 

"Bo-o-o-o-oh !"  he  cried,  exploding  loosely,  like  a  good- 
natured  cannon,  whose  recoil  sent  him  staggering  back- 
wards over  his  legs  till  it  seemed  he  meant  retiring  all 
the  way  to  Hunmouth.  By  a  gigantic  effort,  however, 
he  resisted  the  backward  impetus  when  it  had  sent  him 
off  the  roadway  into  the  shaggy  side-grass,  and  fell  for- 
ward on  his  hands.  "A-a-a-a-ay !"  he  shouted  genially. 
He  was  brimming  over  with  foamy  friendship  for  this 
dear,  familiar  stranger.  "Noo  wi'  ye !"  and  stood  up  on 
all  fours  at  the  greeting,  like  a  well-intentioned  dog, 
whose  muzzle  was  the  battered  cleft  in  his  hat-brim. 

Thus  adjured,  the  pedestrian  drew  up  with  some  se- 
verity on  his  aloof  side  of  the  road,  and  gave  Barclay  to 
understand,  with  a  grudging  "Noo"  of  inquiry,  that  he 
had  nothing  whatever  to  hope  from  him  on  this  side  the 
Jordan.  As  he  had  chanced  to  stop  in  a  line  with  the 
dead-centre  of  Barclay's  hat,  Barclay  could  not  imme- 
diately discern  him,  and  was  filled  indeed  with  suspicions 
of  treachery. 

"Wheer  are  ye  ?"  he  inquired,  after  a  few  moments  of 
futile  activity,  making  valiant  efforts  to  keep  his  eyelids 
lifted. 

"Ah  'm  'ere  i'  front  o'  ye,"  his  unknown  friend  re- 
plied, with  small  show  of  favor,  regarding  this  picture  of 
human  debasement  with  scorn. 


434  THE  POST-GIRL 

"Are  ye?"  Barclay  inquired,  somewhat  foggily,  and 
pushed  himself  with  much  effort  on  to  his  haunches. 
"Which  way  div  ah  want  to  be?"  he  asked. 

"Wheer  did  ye  come  fro'?"  the  figure  demanded 
sternly. 

"Eh?"  said  Barclay. 

"Wheer  div  ye  come  fro'?  'Oo  are  ye?  What  's  yer 
name  ?" 

"Barclay  o'  Far  Wrangham,"  said  Barclay  unsteadily, 
going  forward  on  his  hands  again. 

"Ah  've  'card  tell  on  ye,"  the  figure  remarked.  "Gan 
yer  ways  wi'  ye.  Yon  's  yer  road.  Come,  be  movin'." 

For  some  moments  Barclay  rocked  silently  on  his  all 
fours,  as  though  thinking  deeply. 

"Which  way  div  ah  want  to  be?"  he  commenced  again, 
after  awhile,  and  there  being  no  immediate  response,  em- 
braced the  opportunity  for  a  little  slumber. 

Having  slumbered  pleasantly  for  a  space  on  his  hands 
and  knees  without  interruption,  his  head  swaying  in  cir- 
cles close  to  the  grass  as  though  he  were  browsing,  he 
awoke  of  a  sudden,  under  consciousness  that  he  had  re- 
ceived no  response  to  this  question,  and  working  the 
muzzle  of  his  hat  diligently  in  all  directions  about  him, 
found  to  his  surprise  that  he  was  alone. 

The  discovery  troubled  him,  first  of  all,  so  that  he  mut- 
tered darkly  in  his  throat  like  distant  thunder.  Then  the 
brewing  turned  to  sparkles,  and  he  laughed  deliciously 
on  the  grass,  rolling  over  on  to  his  back,  and  sprawling 
with  limbs  in  air  as  though  he  were  a  celestial  baby, 
brought  up  from  the  bottle  of  pure  bliss.  Lastly,  his 
mind  darkened  to  anger,  and  he  rose  to  all  fours,  roaring 
defiance  after  his  departed  enemy.  It  took  him  some 


THE  POST-GIRL  435 

time  to  find  his  hat  after  this,  which  had  rolled  away 
from  him  during  his  Elysian  laughter,  but  his  knee  trod 
on  it  at  last,  and  the  moments  expended  in  its  discovery 
were  doubled  in  his  efforts  to  apply  it  to  his  head. 

A  dozen  times  he  clapped  it  down,  sideways  forward, 
and  the  same  number  it  rolled  off  him,  and  had  to  be 
resought. 

Last  of  all:  "Nay,  ah  weean't  be  pestered  wi'  ye!"  he 
cried  indignantly.  "Gen  ye  can't  be'ave  yersen  proper, 
an'  stay  where  ye  're  put,  ye  '11  'a  to  gan." 

And  "gan"  it  did,  sure  enough,  into  the  hedge  bottom. 

"Lig  [lie]  there,  ye  ill-mannered  brute!"  he  shouted 
after  it,  and  filled  with  righteous  wrath,  picked  up  the 
waggon-rope  and  staggered  to  his  feet  for  departure. 

"Come  up  wi'  ye,  ye  lazy  divvies !"  he  cried  at  his  legs, 
that,  through  their  long  inactivity,  betrayed  a  certain 
tendency  to  let  him  down.  "Div  ye  'ear?  'Od  up  [Hold 
up].  Dom  yer  eyes  ...  if  ye  weean't  do  better  ah  '11 
walk  o'  my  knees  an'  shame  ye." 

"Gum !  it  's  tonnin  cold,"  he  decided,  after  some  prog- 
ress. 

"Ah  nivver  knowed  it  ton  so  cold  of  a  neet  this  time  o' 
year,"  he  added,  a  while  later. 

And  a  short  way  further  up  the  road : 

"Gum  .  .  .  bud  ah  feel  it  i'  my  yed  [head]  strange- 
lins !"  he  declared,  and  putting  up  an  inquisitive  hand  to 
learn  the  cause  of  it,  was  blankly  amazed  to  discover  him- 
self hatless. 

"Well !  of  all  ...  bud  that  's  a  caution !"  he  said,  and 
stopped  as  dead  as  his  legs  would  let  him.  "Well  .  .  . 
it  's  no  use  seekin'  after  spilt  milk.  Noo  ah  s'll  'a  to  mek 
best  on  it." 


436  THE  POST- GIRL 

The  best  of  it  he  made  forthwith;  and  to  compensate 
for  this  frigidity  of  head  he  put  such  warmth  of  pace 
into  his  advancement  that  at  times — with  his  head  a 
body's  length  in  front  of  his  feet,  and  his  feet  churning 
in  the  rear  like  twin-screws— his  progress  was  consider- 
able. To  have  stopped  under  a  road's  length  would  have 
been  to  fall  as  flat  as  a  pancake.  Nothing  short  of  the 
most  gradual  arrest  could  preserve  his  equilibrium,  and 
as  the  easiest  solution  of  the  problem  was  not  to  stop  at 
all,  he  forged  ahead  till  the  wind  whistled  on  either  side 
of  his  ears.  And  this  constant  freshness,  combined  with 
the  exposed  state  of  his  head,  so  sobered  and  revivified 
him  that,  by  the  time  he  was  passing  through  familiar 
Ullbrig,  he  already  knew  what  houses  were  which,  and 
who  lived  in  them ;  the  day  of  the  week ;  how  long  he  had 
been  absent;  and  was  commencing,  in  common  with  the 
history  of  all  these  nocturnal  or  matutinal  returns,  to  see 
the  evil  of  drink,  and  speak  openly  of  wine  as  a  mocker. 

Moodily  pursuing  this  well-trodden  path  of  his  con- 
version, he  slammed  his  way  through  the  gates,  one  after 
another,  and -passed  Dixon's  sleeping  farm-stead  with  a 
covetous  eye  upon  its  moonlit  windows. 

"Ay,  you  've  not  slipped  fi'  pun  [five  pounds]  doon  yer 
belly  this  'arvest-time,  Jan  Dixon,"  he  reflected,  as  he 
turned  his  back  to  the  scrambling  white  house,  so  calm 
and  self-contemplative  in  the  moonlight,  and  cut  across 
towards  the  cliff.  All  his  loquaciousness  leaked  out  of 
him  now,  in  sight  of  the  goal  which  he  had  been  three 
days  aiming  at  and  missed  up  to  the  present,  and  he 
tramped  along  with  the  impersonal  passivity  of  a  cow 
being  driven  to  market ;  untroubled  as  to  fate,  and  almost 
thoughtless.  The  sea  shook  the  cliff,  as  he  walked,  with 
seismic  shivers,  and  boomed  noisily  in  his  ears ;  but  he  'd 


THE  POST-GIRL  437 

known  it  off  and  on  now  for  forty  years,  and  minded  it 
—particularly  at  such  moments  as  this— as  little  as  the 
buzzing  of  his  own  eight-day  clock.  Of  a  sudden,  how- 
ever, the  sea-surge  bore  up  a  sound  to  him— a  small, 
shrill,  penetrating  sound,  that  pierced  his  passivity  to  its 
vital  marrow,  and  caused  him  to  throw  up  his  head,  with 
a  gaping  mouth  to  all  quarters  of  the  compass  about  him, 
for  the  sound's  location.  He  was  sufficiently  sober  by 
this  time  to  realise  how  very  drunk  he  had  been,  and  in  the 
desolating  flatness  of  life's  Sahara — lacking  any  pleasant 
green  oases  of  illusion — that  he  was  laboriously  travers- 
ing now,  he  knew  the  sound  to  have  been  produced  by 
real,  living,  human  lips ;  for  his  own  brain  was  far  too 
stagnant  to  create  fancies.  Therefore  he  eased  the  wain- 
rope  to  the  ground,  and  holding  up  his  open  mouth  to 
the  sky,  as  though  it  were  an  ear-trumpet,  he  listened  for 
a  repetition  of  this  discordant  note  in  Nature. 

And  again  it  came:  small,  faint,  embosomed  in  the 
roaring  surge,  but  cutting  as  a  diamond. 

This  time  he  had  no  doubt.  It  came  from  over  the 
cliff,  and  had  the  despairing  ring  of  death  and  danger  in 
it,  that  not  even  returning  prodigals  like  Barclay  can  by 
any  means  mistake,  though  they  'd  gone  away  with 
twenty  pounds  in  their  pockets  instead  of  five.  And  bel- 
lowing response  at  the  top  of  his  lungs,  he  ran  to  the 
cliff  edge. 

"A-a-a-a-ay!  'Ello!  Noo  wi'  ye!  What  's  amiss?" 
he  cried,  and  dropping  on  hands  and  knees,  thrust  his 
head  recklessly  over  the  brink  of  it. 

And  again  the  cry  rang  out  from  almost  straight  below 
him— shriller  and  more  terribly  charged  this  time  with 
the  agony  of  animated  hope. 

"Lord  Almighty !"  said  Barclay ;  "it  's  a  lass." 


CHAPTER  XLIII 

TO  this  day  the  tale  of  that  eventful  midnight  is  told 
in  Ullbrig.  How  Barclay,  returning  from  Hun- 
mouth  market,  where  he  had  sold  three  beasts  and  a 
score  of  sheep,  and  drunk  the  money,  heard  Pam's  last 
despairing  cries  for  assistance,  beaten  out  of  her  by  the 
sea  itself.  How  he  ran  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  and  looked 
over,  and  saw  the  two  drenched  figures  sticking  to  the 
side  of  it  like  wet  flies  against  a  pudding  basin.  How, 
even  while  he  watched  them,  the  sea  boiled  up  again  as 
though  it  were  milk,  and  rose  bubbling  above  where  they 
were,  and  made  him  shut  his  eyes  with  a  groan  for  what 
he  might  not  see  when  the  milk  subsided.  How,  praise 
God,  they  were  still  there  when  the  water  sank  down. 
How  he  untackled  his  waggon-rope,  shouting  courage  to 
them  all  the  while,  and  made  a  loop  to  one  end,  and 
hitched  the  other  to  the  adjacent  stile-post,  and  cast  the 
slip-knot  down  the  cliff.  And  how,  for  an  age,  while  he 
swore  at  them  from  above,  the  girl  would  not  come  up 
before  the  man ;  and  the  man  would  not  come  up  before 
the  girl.  And  how,  owing  to  considerations  which  he  did 
not  then  know  or  understand,  namely,  that  the  man  was 
powerless  to  give  any  help  to  his  own  ascent,  and  the  girl 
feared  their  rescuer  might  be  unable  to  haul  him  unaided 
—the  girl  slipped  the  noose  under  her  shoulders,  and 
struggled  and  clambered  up  the  cliff-side  while  Barclay 
pulled  upon  her.  And  how,  almost  before  she  was  on 
the  top,  she  had  detached  the  securing  loop  and  thrown 

438 


THE  POST- GIRL  439 

it  down  to  the  man.  And  how  he  had  just  had  time  to 
slip  it  over  his  neck  and  under  his  shoulders  before  the 
next  sea  came,  cursing  and  swearing  because  of  the  loss 
of  them,  and  seethed  up  three  parts  of  the  cliff,  so  that 
the  foam  of  it  slashed  their  faces.  And  how  they  felt 
the  rope  first  slacken  and  then  go  dead  heavy  in  their 
hands,  and  knew  the  man  was  off  his  feet,  and  would 
have  been  swept  away  but  for  their  hold  upon  him.  And 
how  they  tugged  together,  the  two  of  them,  and  how,  at 
certain  intervals  of  progression,  the  girl  had  wound  the 
slack  rope  round  the  post,  against  all  possible  danger  of 
slip  or  relapse.  And  how,  in  the  end,  the  man's  face 
showed  above  the  cliff-brink,  and  how  they  had  toiled 
him  over;  and  how  the  girl  had  thrown  herself  beside 
him,  and  taken  him  into  her  arms,  and  wiped  his  stream- 
ing face,  and  called  upon  him  by  name,  with  a  hundred 
solicitations  and  endearments,  and  kissed  him. 

Till,  in  Barclay's  own  words:  "Ah  think  theer  's  one 
ower  monny  on  us,"  he  told  them. 

And  the  tale,  continuing,  recounted  how  these  two, 
Barclay  and  the  girl,  made  a  seat  with  their  hands,  and 
bore  the  man  back  to  Dixon's  between  them ;  and  how  the 
man,  wringing  wet  though  he  was,  kept  falling  asleep  on 
the  shoulders  of  one  or  other  of  them,  and  telling  Barclay 
he  was  the  boy  for  mushrooms,  and  he  'd  eat  them  now 
she  'd  given  him  up.  And  how  they  got  him  home  at 
last,  and  how  Barclay  took  double  handfuls  of  earth  and 
flung  them  up  at  Dixon's  window,  and  how  Dixon  put 
his  head  out  first  of  all,  and  cried : 

"Naay,  Barcl'y,  man!  Naay,  naay!  Next  farm.  Ye 
want  to  tek  more  care  i'  countin'  when  ye  come  'ome  this 
time  o'  daay." 


440  THE  POST-GIRL 

And  would  n't  believe  Barclay's  reasons  for  bringing 
him  down,  till  Pam  joined  her  voice  with  his,  when  he 
said:  "Well!  Ah  don't  know  !"— and  the  whole  household 
stood  on  its  legs  that  same  moment. 

And  then  a  mighty  fire  was  roused  up  in  the  kitchen, 
out  of  the  grate's  still  hot  embers,  at  Miss  Bates'  blow- 
ing, and  the  blinds  were  pulled  down  carefully  by  Mrs. 
Dixon,  and  all  extraneous  elements— men,  and  so  forth 
— were  unceremoniously  banished,  and  Pam,  shivering, 
crimson-eared,  bright-eyed,  and  hectic— but  wildly  joy- 
ous— let  them  skin  her  of  her  sodden  habiliments  as 
though  she  had  been  a  drowned  rabbit,  and  was  rubbed 
dry  with  coarse  kitchen  towels  till  her  white,  starved 
body  glowed  like  a  sunset  over  snow.  And  Jeff,  having 
been  despatched  at  Pam's  instigation  to  the  cliff,  and 
having  run  all  the  way  there  and  all  the  way  back, 
thumped  lustily  against  the  outer  panels  of  the  kitchen 
door,  and  Pam's  parcel — looking,  oh,  so  frail  and  pitiable 
and  shamefaced  in  its  new  surroundings— was  drawn  in 
by  Mrs.  Dixon,  and  its  contents  bestowed,  as  the  circum- 
stances demanded,  upon  Pam's  own  body.  And  Pam 
seemed  so  genuinely  overcome  with  their  kindness  that 
all  questions  of  a  controversial  nature  were  by  one  con- 
sent avoided ;  and  not  a  word  asked— beyond  mere  details 
of  the  rescue — as  to  the  strange  juxtaposition  of  Pam  and 
her  bundle,  and  Mr.  Maurice  Ethelbert  Wynne,  along 
the  cliff  at  this  time  of  morning.  To  such  degree,  indeed, 
did  Pam's  own  tearful,  lip-quivering  emotion  of  gratitude 
play  upon  her  two  ministrants,  that  they  discharged  their 
self-sought  duties  in  a  reflected  emotion  scarcely  less  pro- 
found than  the  original ;  giving  the  girl  tear  for  tear,  and 
quiver  for  quiver. 


THE  POST-GIRL  441 

And  when  they  had  rubbed  and  towelled  her,  they 
dressed  her  in  the  same  loving,  lavish  way,  and  vied  with 
each  other  in  finding  articles  from  their  own  wardrobe 
which  might  fit  the  girl ;  and  when  they  had  finished  with 
her,  they  looked  upon  her  completed  presentment  as 
proudly  as  though  they  'd  actually  made  her. 

And  while  Pam  was  being  in  this  way  taken  to  pieces 
and  readjusted  and  put  together  again,  Barclay  and 
Dixon  did  the  same  by  the  Spawer,  upstairs  in  his  own 
bedroom ;  and  laid  him  between  the  blankets  with  a  hot- 
water  bottle  at  his  feet,  that  was  fetched  from  the  kit- 
chen; and  Arny  harnessed  Punch  to  the  spring-cart  and 
drove  off  for  Father  Mostyn  and  the  Doctor— not  that 
Father  Mostyn's  presence  seemed  called  for  on  any  urgent 
or  spiritual  grounds,  but  that  Pam  knew  what  a  slight  he 
would  think  had  been  administered  upon  his  vicarial  of- 
fice, were  he  to  be  left  one  moment  uninformed  of  such 
an  occurrence  as  this. 

And  until  the  arrival  of  the  Doctor,  Pam's  courage  and 
good  hope  had  never  once  deserted  her.  He  for  whom 
she  would  have  died  gladly  twice  over  was  saved  from 
death ;  but  now  there  were  other  vague  things  to  fear.  And 
as  soon  as  she  heard  the  ominous  rattle  of  the  spring-cart's 
return,  that  well-known  clear-cut  voice  of  the  ecclesiast, 
and  the  sharp,  Scotch,  businesslike  tones  of  the  Doctor- 
as  direct  and  straight  to  their  purpose  as  a  macadamised 
road  ...  she  quailed,  and  her  fortitude  left  her.  It 
seemed  as  though  the  whole  atmosphere  were  charged  at 
once  with  electrical  dangers  at  lightning-point. 

She  sat  with  her  face  plunged  in  her  hands,  by  the 
side  of  the  roaring  kitchen  fire,  not  daring  to  rise,  or 
move,  or  go  out  to  meet  these  awful  newcomers,  lest  her 


442  THE  POST-GIRL 

movement  might  precipitate  the  danger.  All  her  hear- 
ing was  drawn  out  from  her  like  wire,  insupportably  fine, 
to  the  doors  of  that  dread  bed-chamber.  Sounds  near  at 
hand,  the  roaring  of  the  fire,  the  fall  of  cinders,  the  sub- 
dued babel  of  downstairs  voices,  had  no  existence  for 
her.  Her  hearing,  as  though  it  had  been  a  telescope,  was 
aimed  above  them  to  some  distant  star,  and  missed  these 
terrestrial  obstacles  by  miles  and  miles— but  every  sound 
from  the  far  landing,  every  whisper,  every  turning  of  the 
handle,  every  creak  of  the  bedroom  floor-boarding,  was 
magnified  a  hundredfold.  To  support  such  auricular 
sensitiveness  it  felt  she  needed  the  strength  of  a  hundred 
bodies,  instead  of  that  poor  tortured  one. 

But  at  last,  lifting  her  face  from  her  hands  with  the 
blanched  cheek  of  high  tension  for  the  very  worst,  she 
heard  the  tread  of  general  exodus;  the  resonant  "Ha!" 
of  Father  Mostyn,  and  the  Doctor's  little  sharp-tongued, 
Scotch-terrier  voice,  giving  out  its  reassurance  to  the  ap- 
plicants at  the  staircase  foot. 

"Na  doot  he  's  had  a  narra  squeak,  an'  ah  'm  no  goin' 
to  say  he  's  oot  o'  the  wood  yet,"  she  heard  him  tell  them. 
"His  back  will  have  had  a  nasty  twist,  an'  there  's  some 
concussion,  but  there  's  naethin'  broken,  and  no  disloca- 
tion. Na,  na,  he  's  no  sae  bad.  Shock  's  the  worrst  o'  't. 
Dinna  mek  yerselves  onhappy,  he  '11  mend  verra  nicely. 
Oh,  he '11  mend  fine!" 

And  going  on  beneath  the  Doctor's  voice  like  an  organ 
pipe,  to  support  and  sustain  and  enrich  it  with  ecclesias- 
tical authority,  was  the  voice  of  his  Reverence. 

"Ha!  No  doubt  about  it.  Concussion.  That  's  the 
mischief.  But  nothing  broken.  No  fractures  or  disloca- 
tion. No  injury  to  the  clavicle,  or  more  important  still, 


THE  POST-GIRL  443 

to  the  dorsal  vertebra.  It  's  purely  a  case  of  shock.  Keep 
him  well  wrapped  up  in  blankets,  get  some  hot  brandy 
and  water  for  him,  and  see  that  the  bottle  is  n't  allowed 
to  grow  cold.  Ha !  that 's  the  way.  Beautiful !  beautiful ! 
We  '11  soon  bring  him  round  again." 

And  the  tale,  as  it  is  told,  goes  on  to  tell  how  in  Dixon's 
kitchen  that  morning— for  day  was  breaking  now— Pam 
made  long  confession  of  something  to  his  Reverence  the 
Vicar.  Nobody  in  Ullbrig  knows  for  sure  what  that 
confession  was,  except  the  Doctor,  who  did  not  share  the 
Dixons'  delicacy  in  withdrawing,  but  sat  in  Dixon's  chair 
on  the  other  side  of  the  fire,  with  his  steaming  toddy 
glass— compounded  out  of  the  sleeping  man's  decanter — 
and  stirred  the  fire  with  the  poker  when  it  needed  it,  and 
was  heard  quite  plainly  to  level  his  voice  on  such  direct 
interrogation  as : 

"But  ye  hae  not  explained  .  .  .  so-and-so." 

Or,  "He  may  thank  his  guid  starrs  ye  were  there  to 
hear-r-r !  But  hoo  cam  ye  by  the  cliff  at  midnight  ?" 

But  as  Pam  would  have  told  him  freely  anything  about 
her  body  if  illness  had  required  it,  and  as  she  could  trust 
him  like  Father  Mostyn's  second  self,  it  would  have  been 
cruelly,  distrustfully  invidious  to  divide  her  carnal  and 
spiritual  confidences  on  this  occasion  with  so  fine  a  line ; 
and  since  the  Doctor  felt  no  compunction  in  their  accept- 
ance, Pam  felt  quite  tranquil  in  their  bestowal.  To  these 
two  men  she  told  the  history  of  her  past  few  days,  shield- 
ing everybody  save  herself ;  how  she  had  come  to  love  the 
Spawer,  and  how  he  had  told  her  of  his  departure;  and 
how  she  had  wept  on  her  bed;  and  how  she  had  feared 
facing  him  that  morning,  lest  she  might  weep  betrayal  of 
herself,  and  of  a  love  she  had  no  right  to  let  him  see,  or 


444  THE  POST-GIRL 

trouble  him  with ;  and  how,  while  she  was  trying  to  gain 
time  for  her  terror,  he  came  on  her  before  she  was  aware; 
and  how  she  had  plunged  the  letter  into  her  pocket ;  and 
how  she  had  taken  it  back  with  her,  not  daring  to  deliver 
it  after  that  .  .  .  and  how  .  .  .  and  how  .  .  . 

Here,  in  her  desire  to  screen  the  guilty  partner  of  her 
trouble,  her  nervous  narrative  seemed  all  plucked  to 
pieces.  Her  words,  indeed,  were  less  for  the  purpose  of 
telling  than  for  the  purpose  of  stopping  their  own  lips 
from  asking. 

"...  And  so  ...  he  said  he  wanted  me  ...  and  he 
said  he  loved  me.  ..."  I  know  he  loved  me,  because  he  'd 
told  me  so  before.  Only  then.  .  .  .  And  after  that.  .  .  ." 

But  the  Doctor,  comfortably  ensconced  in  Dixon's  fire- 
side chair,  with  its  red  chintz  cushion  in  the  small  of  his 
back,  and  half  a  steaming  tumblerful  of  toddy  inside 
him,  was  in  no  mood  to  be  put  off  with  such  ambiguous 
verbal  impressionism. 

"Stop,  stop,  stop!"  said  he,  holding  up  an  arrestive 
toddy-tumbler  at  her.  "I  haena  got  the  sense  o'  that. 
What  d'  ye  say  happened  to  the  letter  ?" 

"Oh  ...  I  cannot  ...  I  cannot,"  Pam  said,  the 
tendons  of  her  narrative  relaxing  suddenly  as  though 
never  could  they  be  brought  to  bear  her  over  this  part  of 
the  history.  But  in  the  end,  with  point-blank  questions 
from  the  Doctor,  and  gentle  leading-words  from  the 
Vicar,  Pam  passed  over  that  rocking  bridge  of  all  that 
had  happened— only,  every  admission  made  against  the 
man's  interest  was  coupled  with  a  pleader  for  his  great 
love  of  her.  And  she  imparted  to  them,  with  a  face 
glorified,  how  that,  when  nothing  seemed  sure  but  death, 
the  Spawer  had  told  her  his  other  attachment  was  broken, 


THE  POST-GIRL  445 

and  had  confessed  his  love  of  her  all  the  time,  and  she 
had  poured  out  her  love  of  him  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  and  they 
knew  the  rest. 

"Ay,  it  's  a  very  quairr  complaint,  this  love !"  the  Doc- 
tor reflected,  pulling  out  his  pipe,  "...  an'  harrd  to 
diagnose.  Ye  never  can  tell.  Ye  never  can  tell.  But 
losh !  ah  thocht  ye  were  clean  gyte  when  ah  hairrd  ye 
were  goin'  ta  marry  yon  fellow !" 

But  Father  Mostyn  was  n't  astonished  in  the  least; 
waltzed  gravely  on  his  feet  with  a  superior,  restrained 
tightness  about  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  and  a  far-away 
sparkle  in  his  keen  grey  eyes,  as  of  one  to  whom  revela- 
tion is  no  new  thing. 

"Beautiful!  beautiful!"  he  mused,  when  Pam  had  fin- 
ished, and  was  looking  with  a  timid,  sub-radiant  eagerness 
from  one  to  the  other.  "There  '11  be  a  scandal,  of  course. 
That  's  the  proper  penalty  for  not  having  confided  your 
trouble  into  the  care  of  Holy  Church."  Here  the  Doctor 
made  a  savage  thrust  with  the  poker  through  the  gratebars, 
and  stirred  and  stirred  up  the  red  coals  till  they  glowed  to 
incandescence.  "But  better  late  than  never.  Leave  it  to 
me.  Leave  it  to  me,  dear  child.  Our  spiritual  Mother 
never  yet  turned  away  from  any  supplicant  that  sought 
her  with  true  faith  and  humility.  We  '11  do  our  best  for 
you.  Of  course,  the  business  is  not  so  bad  as  it  would  be 
if  it  had  been  unexpected.  But  fortunately,  we  've  been 
prepared  for  it.  No  mistaking  the  symptoms." 

And  the  tale,  as  Ullbrig  will  tell  it  to  you  to  this  day, 
goes  on  to  relate  how  Pam  would  not  return  to  the  Post 
Office,  but  took  up  her  post  as  nurse  by  the  Spawer's  bed- 
side, and  could  hardly  endure  to  let  a  bite  pass  her  lips 
thereafter,  for  her  care  of  him,  till  he  made  the  mend. 


446  THE  POST- GIRL 

And  that  same  morning,  news  traveled  to  Ullbrig  that 
the  schoolmaster  had  been  found,  roaming  and  raving 
like  a  madman,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Prestnorth— 
where  a  married  cousin  of  his  was  living— and  was  in 
bed  now  at  her  house,  with  brain  fever.  Not  likely  to  get 
better,  the  rumor  said,  but  therein  it  proved  false,  for  a 
fortnight  later  he  resigned  the  mastership  of  Ullbrig 
School,  and  wrote,  at  the  same  time,  to  Miss  Morland, 
requesting  that  his  effects  might  be  despatched  to  him  by 
carrier  as  soon  as  she  could  conveniently  find  leisure  to 
undertake  the  commission.  Another  letter  accompanied 
it,  addressed  to  Pam  in  his  clear  Board  School  script.  In 
proclamation  it  was  a  penitential  acknowledgment  of  his 
sins ;  in  effect  it  was  a  cacophonous  outburst  of  reproach, 
love,  despair,  and  recriminations.  She  sorrowed  for  the 
man  and  his  hard  lot— for  if  he  had  loved  her  so  tor- 
turingly  it  was  no  fault  of  his  own,  but  he  had  taught  her 
to  fear  him,  and  sympathy  can  never  truly  subsist  in  the 
same  bosom  where  fear  is. 

There  were  those  in  Ullbrig  at  first,  as  Father  Mostyn 
had  predicted,  who,  with  their  sharp  tongues,  whittled 
the  affair  to  a  fine  point  of  scandal ;  those  who  considered 
the  schoolmaster  an  ill-used  man,  and  Pam  a  conscience- 
less hussy  who  had  jilted  him  under  circumstances  that 
would  not  too  well  bear  the  stress  of  investigation;  those 
who  whispered;  and  those  who  nodded  their  chins  with 
compressed  lips  of  meaning.  But  they  had  the  melan- 
choly dissatisfaction  of  fearing,  each  one  in  his  own 
heart,  that  these  things  might  not  after  all  be  true.  Be- 
fore such  a  man  as  Barclay  it  would  never  have  been 
politic  to  repeat  this  primitive  creed  at  any  time.  A 
champion  of  Pam's  from  the  beginning — when  he  cried 


THE  POST-GIRL  447 

reproof  upon  them  for  their  uncharitableness  towards  the 
child — he  was  doubly  her  champion  now ;  strode  up  and 
down  over  the  district  like  a  mighty  sower,  spreading  seed 
of  her  heroism  broadcast  from  both  his  hands.  And  so 
it  came  to  be  that  the  real  history  of  the  girl  burst  its 
early  grain  of  scandal,  as  though  it  had  been  sprouting 
wheat,  and  sent  up  its  produce  into  the  clear  blue  heaven 
of  truth.  To-day,  when  Ullbrig  tells  you  of  that  Monday 
midnight,  it  only  gathers  breath  of  proud  inflation  to 
breathe  how  one  of  its  .daughters — by  name  Pam — went 
down  the  cliff  for  .the  man  she  loved,  and  how  Barclay 
saved  them  both. 


CHAPTER  XLIV 

BUT  for  Pam  and  the  Spawer,  the  true  tale  of  their 
history  only  began  after  the  terrible  events  that 
give  Pam  her  place  among  the  heroines  of  the  district. 
They  used  its  remembrance  as  a  steel  on  which  to  sharpen 
the  blades  of  their  present  bliss,  but  it  was  not  an  inherent 
part  of  their  story.    That  commenced  when  the  horror  of 
this  was  over;  when  the  Spawer  woke  up  finally,  with  a 
lasting   wakefulness,   on    his   bed,   and   saw    Pam,    and 
smiled. 

Ah!  What  a  beautiful  opening  chapter  that  was— full 
of  a  golden  tremulousness  on  the  girl's  side,  as  of  timid 
sunlight  peeping  through  the  curtains  of  a  May  morning 
when  a  great  day  is  in  the  balance.  For  there  had  crept 
into  the  girl's  heart  while  she  watched  him  a  strange  little 
dark  bird,  that  fluttered  .  .  .  and  was  still,  and  fluttered 
again  .  .  .  and  again  was  still,  gathering  its  strength  and 
grew,  and  was  fledged  and  flew  up — almost  into  the  clear 
skies  of  her  reason,  though  not  quite— and  sang  plaintive 
melodies  to  her ;  among  others,  that  the  man  she  thought 
of  as  Maurice  had  made  love  to  her  in  his  madness ;  that 
he  was  not  free ;  that  he  had  never  loved  her ;  that  she 
was  only  tending  him  back  to  consciousness  for  the  cruel 
happiness  of  finding  that  his  consciousness  on  the  intel- 
lectual side  meant  unconsciousness  on  the  emotional ;  that 
he  would  remember  nothing  of  his  delirious  words,  and 
that  his  love  had  been  but  the  outcome  of  bodily  weak- 

448 


THE  POST-GIRL  449 

ness.  Last  of  all,  she  grew  to  dread  his  waking  for  the 
news  it  might  tell  her.  When  he  stirred  ...  she  closed 
her  eyes  momentarily,  with  swift  apprehension  of  the 
worst.  When  he  lay  a  long  while  still,  she  prayed  he 
might  wake  promptly  and  put  her  out  of  her  misery. 

For  it  was  become  a  long  misery  of  suspense.  All  her 
happiness  was  laid  aside  like  fine  raiment;  she  dared  not 
look  at  it  or  think  of  it;  her  heart  made  ready  to  wear 
mourning.  And  oh,  the  anguish  of  that  moment,  when 
at  last — while  her  swift  blood  turned  suddenly  turbid  in 
her  veins,  and  the  very  breath  in  her  lungs  curdled  thick 
to  suffocation — he  came  out  of  his  sleep,  and  his  eyes 
opened  incomprehendingly  upon  her  .  .  .  and  she,  drawn 
back  in  apprehension,  with  her  hands  clasped  up  to  her 
lip  ...  met  his  gaze,  and  knew  not  how  to  respond  to  it. 

And  then  that  glorious  burst  of  certainty  when  recog- 
nition woke  in  him  wanly  and  illuminated  him  like  pale 
glad  sunlight,  and  he  struggled  to  free  his  arms  of  their 
coverings,  and  held  them  out  to  her  .  .  .  and  she  had 
gone  into  them  like  a  dove  descending  .  .  .  and  put  her 
own  red,  moist  lips  to  his  dry  ones  .  .  .  and  kissed  his 
lingering  soul  back  to  life  and  happiness. 

Ah!  To  have  lived  that  one  brief  moment,  as  Pam 
lived  it,  was  to  have  lived  a  lifetime  abundantly.  Now 
indeed  that  she  knew  he  loved  her  for  certain,  and  had 
had  the  true  sign  and  seal  of  it,  she  was  ready  to  die 
forthwith,  if  need  were.  It  was  enough  to  have  held  his 
love  once  in  her  own  soul's  keeping,  as  a  child  treasures 
the  moment's  confidence  of  some  precious  breakable  vase. 
Pam  was  not  greedy.  She  would  have  been  quite  con- 
tent with  no  more. 

But  Heaven  was  kinder  to  this  dear  terrestrial  angel 

28 


450  THE  POST- GIRL 

than  that,  and  filled  every  moment  of  her  days  henceforth 
with  gladnesses  as  great,  and  greater.  At  times  she 
wanted  to  get  right  away  from  everywhere  and  every- 
body; Heaven  seemed  to  keep  her  plate  replenished  with 
celestial  meats  quicker  than  her  soul  could  consume  them. 
She  wanted  to  dally  with  the  taste  of  them,  and  extract 
their  last  nutritive  juices  of  virtue.  But  she  .  .  .  well, 
she  was  only  human,  after  all,  and  said  grace,  and  ate 
what  was  set  before  her. 

In  a  way,  Pam's  prayer  was  almost  of  gratitude  and 
rejoicing  that  her  love  had  been  given  to  her  in  this  hour 
of  his  weakness.  While  he  lay  there,  helpless  upon  his 
bed,  following  her  mutely  with  his  eyes,  the  fact  of  his 
belonging  to  her  seemed  set  forth  and  glorified  to  an  ex- 
tent almost  apocalyptic.  In  image  he  was  a  little  child, 
dependent  upon  her  breasts  for  subsistence.  Every  mo- 
ment furnished  her  with  opportunities  for  feeding  him 
with  the  living  love  that  flowed  in  her  own  body.  Oh, 
truly,  truly,  he  seemed  hers  when  she  nourished  him  thus 
back  to  life  with  her  ceaseless  attentions ;  with  caresses ; 
with  sudden  fondlings— such  as  only  his  helplessness 
could  have  made  possible ;  with  a  thousand  ministrations 
thoughtful  and  divine.  Her  thoughts  were  always  of 
him;  her  every  movement  showed  him  plainly  as  the 
motive  power.  All  the  love  of  him  that  had  been  gather- 
ing in  the  stillness  of  her  soul  flowed  out  towards  him 
now  in  a  great  psychic  stream— as  warm  and  broad  as  a 
beam  of  sunlight.  From  her  fingers  when  they  touched 
him;  from  her  lips  when  they  rested  on  him;  from  her 
attitude  when  she  turned  towards  him — flowed  this  con- 
stant current  of  love,  love,  love.  Like  a  very  planet  was 
the  life  of  Maurice  Ethelbert  Wynne  in  these  days— a 


THE  POST-GIRL  451 

luminous  orb  swimming  in  pure  ether  of  love.  The  love 
of  a  true,  good  woman  is  great  and  wonderful,  but  the 
love  of  this  girl  was  so  great  and  so  wonderful  that  in 
the  strong  tide  of  it  the  Spawer  lay  half  incredulous  on 
his  bed  and  blinked.  It  was  no  love  of  laughter ;  no  love 
of  jingling  words;  no  love  of  triflings  or  pretty  affecta- 
tions. It  was  a  strong,  tense,  electric  current  of  unselfish 
feminine  devotion  that  set  the  very  atmosphere  a-quiver. 
When  she  came  near  him  he  could  almost  hear  it  hum- 
ming aeolian  music,  as  though  he  had  laid  his  flat  cheek  to 
a  telegraph  post. 

And  in  a  way,  too,  he  was  glad  to  be  thus  helpless  on 
his  back,  for  the  glory  of  being  cradled  in  such  a  love,  and 
learning  his  love  all  over  again,  like  an  infant  its  alphabet, 
from  the  lips  and  looks  and  actions;  the  dear,  large- 
hearted  ABC  Primer  of  Pam.  Her  very  love  of  him, 
issuing  towards  him  from  every  pore  of  her  body,  fer- 
tilised the  girl's  own  beauty,  like  the  sap  in  the  lush  hedge- 
rows at  spring.  Her  soft,  velvet  eyes,  that  had  been  dark 
enough  and  deep  enough  before,  darkened  and  deepened 
for  the  accommodation  of  this  love  till  they  were  beyond 
all  plumb  of  mortal  gaze.  Her  lips,  that  had  been  red 
enough  and  tender,  colored  now  to  a  deeper,  clearer  car- 
mine, with  little  pools  of  love  visible  lurking  in  the  cor- 
ners of  them;  love  that  stirred  and  eddied  when  she 
spoke,  and  settled  down  again  into  their  ruby  hollows 
when  the  lips  reposed.  Her  lashes,  that  had  been  black 
enough,  and  long  enough,  and  thick  enough,  lengthened 
almost  under  sight  of  the  man ;  grew  black  as  ebony  and 
so  thick  that  when  she  looked  upon  him  from  above,  they 
lay  in  unbroken  flatness  upon  her  cheek.  And  her 
freckles  too— those  dear  little  golden  minstrels  on  the 


452  THE  POST-GIRL 

bridge  of  her  nose  and  brow— grew  more  purely  golden, 
till  at  times  almost  they  gleamed  like  minute  bright  insets 
of  the  precious  metal  itself,  and  sang  love  like  a  cluster  of 
caged  linnets.  At  whiles,  when  the  Spawer  looked  at 
her,  such  a  proud  and  tearful  tenderness  floated  into  him 
that  had  he  been  another  woman,  sure  he  must  have 
wept.  Her  confidence  in  him ;  her  self-sacrifice ;  her  un- 
ceasing devotion;  her  countless  ministrations — frightened 
him  for  what  his  own  conduct  must  be  ever  to  repay 
them. 

"Little  woman  .  .  ."  he  was  moved  to  tell  her,  during 
that  first  day  of  his  convalescence,  "...  do  you  know 
...  I  think  I  don't  ever  want  to  get  out  of  bed  or  on  my 
legs  again." 

Pam  was  plainly  alarmed,  for  it  seemed  to  her  he  had 
suddenly  caught  the  desire  of  death  which  comes  at  times 
to  those  whose  days  are  numbered.  But  he  made  haste 
to  reassure  her. 

"I  just  feel  .  .  ."  he  explained  to  her,  "...  as 
though  I  could  wish  to  lie  here,  like  this,  for  ever  and 
ever  and  ever,  with  you  by  me  to  look  at  and  make  me 
happy.  Kiss  me  again,  Pam,  will  you?  It  does  me 
good." 

Then  Pam  stooped  over  him,  as  she  was  always  doing, 
and  slipped  her  linked  fingers  under  his  neck,  and  looked 
into  his  face  first,  and  kissed  him  (praying  for  him  the 
while,  though  he  did  not  know  that),  and  buried  her  face 
by  his,  and  lifted  it  to  look  at  him  once  more,  and  kissed 
him  again.  For  who  was  there  now  to  lay  a  forbidding 
hand  between  their  lips  ?  Who  should  stop  her  now  from 
telling  him  she  loved  him,  loved  him,  loved  him  ? 


CHAPTER  XLV 

AND  rapidly  the  Spawer  drew  back,  from  its  intricate 
I\  shadowy  by-paths,  to  the  great  broad  highway  of 
Life. 

How  it  would  have  fared  with  him  but  for  that  revital- 
ising power  of  love,  if  there  had  been  no  Pam  to  cling  to 
and  sustain  him,  no  man  can  positively  say.  The  lonely 
Maurice  Ethelbert  Wynne  of  our  latter  chapters,  void  of 
hope  or  happiness  or  aim,  might  have  turned  up  his  hands 
and  sunk  under  the  deep  sea  without  a  struggle.  But  Pam 
was  hands  and  eyes,  and  feet  and  lips,  and  thinker  for 
them  both. 

Emma  Morland  brought  the  letters  round  in  these  early 
days,  but  Pam  opened  them,  at  the  Spawer's  express  bid- 
ding, and  read  them  to  him  aloud  in  her  musical  fluty 
voice — the  voice  that  had  won  her  a  place  in  his  heart 
before  even  he  had  set  eyes  upon  her.  And  as  she  read, 
the  Spawer,  sitting  in  the  big  chair  by  the  open  sunlit  win- 
dow, with  cushions  under  him  of  Pam's  placing,  would 
explain  to  her  the  various  allusions ;  let  her  into  his  life ; 
throw  open  all  its  gateways  to  the  girl.  In  the  inmost 
shelter  of  his  soul  he  felt  as  though  he  needed  the  com- 
fort of  Pam's  companionship. 

"Nixey"  stood  for  So-and-So,  he  would  explain  to  her ; 
and  "Jack"  was  the  brother  of  So-and-So— the  fellow 
that  did  this  and  that  and  the  other  that  he  'd  told  her 
about,  did  n't  she  remember  ? 

453 


454  THE  POST-GIRL 

And  did  n't  Pam  remember  ?  Oh,  my  Heaven !  Pam 
remembered.  Not  a  word  he  ever  said  to  her  that  she 
forgot. 

Then,  if  there  were  any  letters  to  answer,  Pam  would 
seat  herself  at  the  table,  with  his  writing-case  thrown 
open,  and  dip  deft  fingers  here,  for  envelopes;  and  deft 
fingers  there,  for  paper;  and  draw  forth  the  pen,  and 
wield  it  as  though  armed  for  the  fray;  and  would  spear 
the  ink-pot  with  it,  and  wait  upon  his  words  with  a  per- 
suasive "Yes,  dear  ?" 

And  the  Spawer  would  make  prodigious  pretensions  of 
thinking,  and  not  a  word  come  to  him  sometimes,  because 
of  the  girl's  face.  His  mind  held  up  its  thought  as  an 
obstinate  cow  does  milk,  and  never  a  drop  could  he 
squeeze  from  it.  All  he  could  think  of  was  Pam. 

"Oh,  bother  the  letters !"  he  would  tell  her.  "They  stop 
my  thinking  about  you.  Why  must  I  pawn  my  attention 
to  a  horrid  old  business  screed  when  I  want  never  to  take 
it  from  you  ?" 

"Don't  you  ?"  says  Pam  gladly,  and  melts  over  him  with 
her  smile,  wrapping  him  up  in  such  a  heavenly  mantle  of 
indulgence  and  love  and  devotion  that  he  almost  feels 
himself  among  the  saints. 

And  oh !  the  joyousness  of  that  return  to  the  outer  life, 
when  Pam  led  the  Spawer  out  at  last,  she  carrying  a 
cushion  and  a  little  net-bag  of  literary  food  (a  French 
reader  and  the  like)  ;  and  they  betook  themselves  to  the 
harvest-field,  and  sat  down  under  the  blue  sky  in  the 
stubble,  with  their  backs  against  the  golden  stocks,  and 
watched  the  elevated  figure  of  Arny  riding  over  the  sea 
of  waving  corn,  like  another  Neptune,  turning  off  the 
wheat  from  the  tip  with  rhythmic  sweeps  of  his  trident; 


THE  POST-GIRL  455 

his  eyes  steadfast  upon  the  tumbling  crest  of  corn  beside 
him;  and  they  contemplated  the  busy  shirt-sleeves  of  the 
band-makers,  pulling  out  their  two  thin  wisps  of  straw 
from  the  recumbent  "shawves,"  splicing  them  dexter- 
ously, and  twisting  them — across  their  chests  and  under 
their  arm-pits,  till  their  arms  flap  like  the  wings  of  a 
crowing  rooster— into  a  stout-stranded  band,  that  they  lay 
out  in  the  stubble  alongside  the  flat  heaps  of  fallen  grain ; 
and  they  watched  the  harvestmen  following,  who  rake  up 
the  loose  corn  into  a  round  bundle  against  the  flat  of  their 
leg,  walk  with  it,  so  clipped,  to  the  ready-made  band,  de- 
pose it  there,  stoop,  gather  the  two  ends  of  the  band  in 
their  strong  hands,  squeeze  the  sheaf  in  with  the  knee, 
bind  it,  make  a  securing  tuck  with  the  straw,  and  taking 
up  the  trim-waisted  shock  by  its  plaited  girdle,  cast  it 
aside  out  of  the  path  of  the  reaper  on  its  next  round. 

And  then,  when  "lowance"  time  was  proclaimed,  this 
stock  where  Maurice  and  his  Pamela  were  seated  would 
be  made  the  headquarters  of  the  repast.  Here  would 
come  the  welcome  brown  basket,  and  the  carpet  bag  with 
its  bottlenecks  protruding;  the  blue  mugs  and  the  tin 
pannikins ;  the  cheese  and  the  bread ;  the  pasties  and  the 
sweet  cakes ;  the  tea  and  the  beer.  And  here  would  come 
Dixon's  genial  voice,  greeting  them  from  afar : 

"Noo  then,  Mr.  Wynne!  'Ow  div  ye  fin'  yersen  ti 
morn?  Very  comfortable,  bi  t'  looks  of  ye.  Ye  're  in 
good  'ands,  it  seems." 

AND  when  the  Spawer  grows  equal  to  it,  it  becomes  a 
daily  obligation  for  them  to  wander  across  the  interven- 
ing stubble  and  pasture  to  Barclay's  farm— where  the 
sails  of  his  reaper  can  be  seen  churning  the  blue  sky  above 


456  THE  POST-GIRL 

the  hedge  level,  like  the  paddle  of  a  steamer — just  to  give 
Barclay's  stocks  a  turn,  and  show  themselves  not  for- 
getful of  their  deliverer.  The  time  comes,  of  course, 
when  they  must  cease  thanking  him  with  their  lips,  but 
Pam's  mere  gaze  upon  him  is  a  gratitude,  and  Barclay 
would  have  missed  it,  if  she  failed  him  one  day,  as  he 
would  miss  his  pipe  or  his  "lowance." 

"Ah,"  said  he,  on  a  certain  occasion,  looking  over  with 
a  manifest  nice  eye  of  critical  observation,  and  finding  no 
fault,  "If  ah  'd  'ad  a  lass  like  you  to  tek  me  at  start,  ah 
mud  'a  been  a  better  man,  an'  a  richer." 

"But  there  are  others,"  Pam  told  him  encouragingly, 
"...  besides  me." 

"Ay,"  Barclay  cut  in,  with  a  grim  humor.  "There  is. 
Ower  monny,  lass.  Bud  they  'd  'ave  to  be  good  uns  after 
ah  've  'ad  you  to  sample.  Ah  would  n't  tek  onny  rubbish 
noo,  an'  it  'd  'ave  to  be  rubbishin'  stuff  'at  'd  tek  me. 
Ah  'm  ower  well  known  'ereabouts.  'Appen  ah  mud  get 
chance  wi'  next  farm  if  ah  change." 

But  the  seed  of  resolution  germinated  in  Pam's  breast, 
and  some  days  later,  getting  Barclay  to  herself,  it  pushed 
its  pure  blades  through  the  warm  soil  all  suddenly. 

".  .  .  Oh,  Mr.  Barclay,"  she  begged  him,  going 
close  under  his  broad  chest,  and  showing  the  peeping 
hands  of  petition.  "You  won't  be  angry  with  me  .  .  . 
please  ?" 

"Nay,  that  ah  weean't,"  Barclay  protested  staunchly. 
"Oot  wi'  it !  What  'ave  ah  been  doin'  noo  ?" 

"I  want  to  ask  you  something,"  Pam  continued,  a  little 
more  softly,  and  a  little  more  rapidly.  "...  Something 
very  particular.  I  want  you  to  promise  something." 

"Ay,"  said  Barclay  assentively.     "Ah  can  promise  ye, 


THE  POST-GIRL  457 

lass.  Ah  can  promise  onnybody,  so  far  as  that  gans. 
But  it 's  keepin'  of  it  'at 's  not  i'  mah  line." 

"If  you  promise  me  .  .  .  you  '11  keep  it,"  Pam  insinu- 
ated very  softly,  but  with  an  almost  irresistible  forceful- 
ness. 

"Ah  'm  none  so  sure,"  Barclay  reflected.  "Ah  know 
what  ye  want  to  ask  me." 

"What?"  said  Pam. 

"Ye  want  to  ask  me  to  gie  it  up." 

"Yes,"  said  Pam,  after  a  pause,  "I  do." 

"Ah  've  tried  .  .  .  lots  o'  times,"  Barclay  admitted. 

"But  not  for  me!"  Pam  urged.  "Not  for  the  sake  of 
anybody.  Oh,  Mr.  Barclay  .  .  .  you  don't  know  how 
unhappy  I  've  been  at  times  about  you,  of  late  ...  to 
think  that  you  've  saved  my  life— and  his  life— and  put 
this  happiness  in  our  way  .  .  .  and  all  the  time  you  're 
not  taking  any  care  of  your  own  life  ...  at  all." 

"Why,  lass,"  Barclay  told  her,  but  visibly  troubled 
about  the  eyes  by  her  solicitude.  "Ah  'm  sorry  ye  Ve  let 
me  be  a  trouble  to  ye.  Ah  've  been  nowt  bud  trouble  to 
missen  an'  ivverybody.  But  where  would  ye  be  ?  ...  an' 
'im  too,  if  ah  'd  kep'  pledge  sin'  last  time  ah  signed  'er? 
Eh?" 

"I  know ;  I  know,"  Pam  admitted.  "I  've  thought  of 
that,  too." 

"Ay,"  Barclay  took  up,  pleased  with  her  admission. 
"It 's  a  caution  when  ye  come  to  think  on  it.  If  ah  'ad  n't 
been  mekkin'  a  swill-tub  o'  missen,  an'  walked  back  when 
ah  did— it  'd  'a  been  good-by  to  'ye,  an'  long  live  teetaw- 
tallers.  It  just  seems  as  though  Lord  'ad  called  me  to 
Oommuth  for  t'  puppos — though  ah  did  n't  know  it  at 
time.  An'  'ow  am  ah  to  know,  if  'E  calls  o'  me  ageean, 


458  THE  POST-GIRL 

same  road  ...  'at  'E  'as  n't  seummut  else  'E  's  wantin' 
doin'?  Ehnoo?" 

"Perhaps  .  .  ."  Pam  suggested  pleadingly,  "...  per- 
haps it  was  n't  God  that  called  you,  Mr.  Barclay  .  .  .  but 
it  was  God  that  sent  you  back.  Don't  you  think  it  might 
be  that?" 

"Noo,  ah  sewd  n't  wonder,"  Barclay  decided,  with  ob- 
vious admiration  for  the  girl's  ingenuity.  "But  it  '11  be  a 
rum  un  for  me  to  know  which  way  'E  wants  me  to  gan 
...  or  which  end  'E  's  at." 

".  .  .  And  you  '11  promise  me,  won't  you?"  Pam  be- 
sought him,  and  took  hold  of  his  watch-chain.  "You  '11 
promise  me  to  fight  your  very  best  .  .  .  for  my  sake." 

"Ay,"  said  Barclay,  after  a  pause.    "Ah  can  bud  try." 

"You  '11  try  hard,  though?"  Pam  adjured  him— finding 
too  much  fatalism  in  the  tone  of  his  promise  for  her  satis- 
faction. 

"No.  .  .  .  when  ah  say  ah  '11  try,  ah  mean  ah  '11  try !" 
Barclay  reassured  her.  "Ah  s'll  try  my  very  best  for  t' 
sake  of  'oo  asked  me." 

AND  Father  Mostyn  and  the  Doctor  are  constant  atten- 
dants upon  the  Spawer's  recovery  too,  and  stay  for  meals 
whenever  they  want  them;  and  tell  him  when  the  whiskey 
flask  is  running  low. 

AND  it  comes  to  be  decided  that  their  marriage  shall  not 
take  place  for  a  year.  And  meanwhile  the  Spawer  is 
going  to  stay  where  he  is;  and  Pam  is  to  push  on  with 
her  music,  and  her  French,  and  with  her  English,  and 
fill  her  dear  little  head  with  the  intellectual  fare  for  which 
it  has  always  hungered.  And  she  is  to  do  no  more  letter- 


THE  POST-GIRL  459 

carrying.  Father  Mostyn  has  inhibited  her  from  that 
with  an  ex  cathedra  usage  of  the  great  signet.  To  remain 
at  the  Post  Office  in  an  official  capacity  in  face  of  present 
circumstances  would  be  an  act  of  rebellion  towards  the 
Church,  and  exceedingly  offensive  to  Jehovah.  As  the 
girl's  spiritual  and  corporeal  guardian,  he  charges  himself 
with  her  care  until  she  can  be  decently  and  respectably 
married.  And  they  will  go,  all  three  of  them,  to  Hun- 
mouth  at  times,  by  Tankard's  'bus  (oh,  bliss!  oh,  heav- 
enly rapture!)  for  purposes  of  shopping  .  .  .  and  the 
sheer  pleasure  of  it. 

And  the  Spawer  talks  seriously  of  coming  back  to  Ull- 
brig  after  the  honeymoon,  and  fitting  up  a  little  place  for 
their  own  two  selves,  where  they  can  be  near  Father 
Mostyn,  and  all  their  old  friends ;  and  where  he  can  work 
earnestly,  and  without  distractions;  and  where  they  can 
escape  all  the  jealousies  and  soul-corrupting  ambitions  of 
towns  and  places  where  they  "live." 

"Oh,  little  woman !"  he  tells  Pam,  "I  can't  bear  to  think 
of  your  giving  up  your  own  dear  self,  and  letting  your 
soul  be  shaped  to  the  conventional  pattern  of  the  world. 
I  want  you  to  be  what  you  are — and  for  what  I  love  you. 
You  shall  see  all  the  big  places,  of  course,  dear.  We  '11 
save  up  our  coppers  and  manage  that  somehow.  But 
let  's  see  'em  from  the  outside.  Let  's  go  and  look  at 
them  through  glass  windows,  as  though  they  were  so 
many  great  shops,  and  come  back  to  our  own  humble 
happy  life,  and  break  bread  and  be  thankful.  The  world 
for  us,  dear,  is  just  our  two  selves.  We  're  two  little 
human  hemispheres  that  go  to  make  our  one  globe,  and  if 
we  're  only  happy  in  ourselves  .  .  .  why,  let  the  other 
planets  go  hang!  Because  you  love  me  I  just  feel  I  don't 


460  THE  POST-GIRL 

care  how  many  people  hate  me.  They  can  hate  their 
heads  off.  They  can  cry  'pish'  to  my  music.  They  can 
turn  aside  their  faces  when  I  go  by,  as  though  I  were  a 
pestilence.  What  I  do  I  want  to  do  now  for  you.  I  feel 
I  would  rather  write  a  little  song  that  pleases  you,  love, 
than  compose  a  Beethoven  symphony  for  the  world  to 
bow  to.  And  why?  Because,  dearest,  I  know  that  the 
world  is  as  ready  to  kick  me  as  to  bestow  one  ha'porth  of 
its  kindness  .  .  .  but  You!  All  the  pleasure  I  can  give 
to  you  ...  is  just  an  investment,  which  you  can  pay 
back  to  me  in  love  at  a  thousand  per  cent." 

"Is  n't  it  funny?"  says  Pam,  though  without  showing 
the  least  appreciation  of  the  avowed  humor,  "...  what 
love  is.  I  've  thought  the  same  as  you,  too,  but  not  put 
so  beautifully.  I  just  want  us  to  try  and  be  like  what  we 
are  now,  in  our  hearts,  as  long  as  we  live.  At  times  (do 
you?)  I  like  to  think  of  you  as  belonging  to  me  ...  as 
though  you  were  every  bit  mine.  And  at  other  times  .  .  . 
I  feel  frightened  of  having  you.  The  responsibility  seems 
somehow  too  great.  And  then  I  just  think  of  myself  as 
belonging  to  you.  And  all  I  want  ...  is  to  creep  into 
your  heart,  dear,  and  for  you  to  shelter  me.  Oh,  Mau- 
rice! To  think.  Six  months  ago  .  .  three  months 
ago  ...  I  had  no  thought  of  you,  or  you  of  me !  And 
we  might  never  have  met  each  other;  never  have  loved 
each  other !  Is  n't  it  dreadful  ?" 

"What  the  eye  does  n't  see,  darling!"  Maurice  tells  her, 
"...  the  heart  does  n't  grieve.  What  we  never  know 
we  never  miss.  But  now  we  're  going  to  make  up  for 
what  might  have  been,  are  n't  we  ?" 

Pam  says  yes,  they  are.  "And  oh,"  she  says,  "if  you 
had  n't  found  me  you  might  have  found  somebody  else. 


THE  POST-GIRL  461 

Morrie  dear,  do  you  think  it  possible  that  I  may  be  stand- 
ing in  the  way  of  somebody  you  don't  know  at  all  ... 
that  you  might  love  better  ?" 

"Very  likely  you  are,  dear !"  Maurice  says,  acting  Job's 
comforter.  "But  anyway,  I  'm  ready  to  risk  you,  and 
take  my  chance  of  what  may  be  for  what  is." 

And  this  time  Pam  is  ready  to  risk  it  too,  and  does  not 
tell  the  Spawer,  as  once  she  told  Ginger : 

"There  must  be  no  chance  in  love !" 


CHAPTER  XLVI 

ONE  bright  morning  in  late  September,  when  the  sky 
dreamed  as  blue  as  June,  and  the  sun  shone  August, 
a  stranger  passed  through  into  the  churchyard  by  the 
lich  gate,  and  his  Reverence  the  Vicar,  having  received 
telepathic  intimation  of  his  presence,  along  one  or  other 
of  the  invisible  slender  filaments  that  connect  the  Vicar- 
age with  the  churchyard,  emerged  shortly  from  his  re- 
treat, like  a  fine  full-bodied  spider,  and  captured  his  prize 
by  the  side  wicket,  with  a  "Ha !"  of  agreeable  greeting. 

"A  stranger  within  our  gates!"  he  observed,  in  cour- 
teous surprise,  rocking  to  and  fro  upon  his  legs  in  the 
pathway,  and  balancing  the  ebony  staff  across  both  palms, 
as  though  he  were  weighing  theological  propositions.  He 
encompassed  the  sky  with  a  comprehensive  circle  of 
ferrule,  and  thrusting  up  a  rapt  nose  to  appreciation  of 
its  beneficent  blue,  "You  bring  glorious  weather !"  he  said. 

The  stranger  acknowledged  with  marked  politeness  that 
the  weather  was  as  his  Reverence  had  been  pleased  to 
state.  He  was  an  elderly  man,  soberly  habited  in  black, 
and  a  compression  of  mouth  that  seemed  to  betoken  one 
whose  office  exacted  of  him  either  deference  or  discretion, 
or  perhaps  both. 

"A  pilgrim  to  the  old  heathen  centre  of  Ullbrig?"  his 
Reverence  inquired.  "...  An  antiquarian  at  all?  A 
connoisseur  of  tablets?  or  a  rubber  of  brasses?  —in 
which  case  we  've  nothing  to  show  you." 


THE  POST-GIRL  463 

The  stranger  said  he  was  not  exactly  any  of  these 
things. 

"Ha!  ...  an  epitaph  hunter,  perhaps?"  his  Rever- 
ence substituted  agreeably,  as  though  desirous  of  setting 
him  at  ease. 

Nor  scarcely  an  epitaph  hunter  ...  in  the  precise 
sense  of  the  word,  the  stranger  disclaimed.  He  scanned 
Father  Mostyn  sideways  with  a  deferential  regard  of 
inquiry.  "The  Vicar,  I  presume?"  he  said.  . 

His  Reverence  acknowledged  the  appellation  by  inclin- 
ing leniently  towards  it. 

"I  thought  ...  I  could  not  be  mistaken,"  the  stranger 
told  him.  "As  a  matter  of  fact  ...  I  had  intended  tak- 
ing the  liberty  of  troubling  you  with  a  call,  after  giving 
a  glance  round  the  gravestones  here.  It  is  possible,  if  you 
would  be  so  kind,  that  you  might  be  of  considerable  as- 
sistance to  ...  to  me  in  a  matter  of  some  importance." 

Father  Mostyn  wagged  the  divining  rod  sagely  over 
his  palms. 

"A  question  of  the  register?  Births?  Deaths?  Mar- 
riages ?  A  pedigree  in  the  issue,  perhaps  ?" 

"To  a  certain  extent,  sir,  you  are  quite  correct."  The 
stranger  compressed  his  mouth  for  a  moment.  "I  may 
as  well  be  explicit  on  the  point.  Indeed,  there  is  no  rea- 
son, sir,  why  any  particular  secrecy  should  be  maintained. 
I  am  here  to  pursue  investigations  on  behalf  of  Messrs. 
Smettering,  Keelman  &  Drabwell,  solicitors,  of  Lincoln's 
Inn,  who  are  acting  according  to  instructions  received 
from  a  client  of  some  importance.  Our  object  is  merely 
to  trace  and  establish  connection  with  a  member  of  our 
client's  family— considerably  to  this  member's  advantage, 
I  may  assure  you." 


464  THE  POST-GIRL 

His  Reverence  looked  speculatively  over  the  stick  a? 
though  the  last  few  sentences  had  escaped  his  precise  ob- 
servation, and  he  were  trying  now  to  reclaim  the  import 
of  them. 

"...  A  military  family  at  all?"  he  inquired. 

The  stranger  eyed  him  with  respectful  surprise  and 
dubiety  for  a  moment. 

"...  An  old  family  of  importance,"  he  admitted 
slowly.  "I  should  say  it  might  be  called  a  military  fam- 
ily." Then  he  stopped.  "Perhaps  .  .  ."  said  he,  and 
looked  at  his  Reverence. 

"Ha!"  said  his  Reverence  blandly.  "And  the  present 
client  ?  An  army  man,  is  he  ?" 

"The  son  of  one,  I  believe,  sir." 

"To  be  sure.  Precisely.  The  son  of  one.  Beautiful ! 
beautiful!  One  or  two  fat  benefices  in  the  family,  do 
you  know?" 

"I  rather  fancy  .  .  .  there  is  one  attached  to  the  estate. 
There  may  be  more,  for  anything  to  my  knowledge."  The 
stranger  followed  the  lead  with  the  resignation  of  one 
who  plays  void  of  trumps.  "If  you  know  anything  .  .  ." 
he  hazarded. 

His  Reverence  stroked  a  gorgeous  nose  of  wisdom. 

"No  mistaking  the  symptoms.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Your 
client  seeks  recovery  of  a  daughter?" 

The  stranger  demonstrated  as  much  surprise  as  his 
discretion  and  his  respectfulness  would  let  him. 

"You  can  inform  us  ...  where  she  is?" 

"Certainly !  certainly !  We  have  been  expecting  you.  I 
thought  you  would  n't  be  long  in  reaching  us  now.  To- 
morrow ...  or  Thursday,  I  thought."  His  Reverence 
cast  a  fine  finger  of  effect  towards  the  white  headstone, 


THE  POST- GIRL  465 

rising  from  the  grass,  beneath  the  east  window.  "She  is 
there." 

"Dead  ?"  said  the  stranger. 

"Your  client  is  just  a  little  matter  of  thirteen  years  too 
late." 

"Her  married  name  was  Searle  ?"  said  the  stranger,  as 
though  offering  the  fact  for  the  priest's  verification. 

"To  be  sure.  On  the  gravestone.  On  the  gravestone. 
'Sacred  to  the  memory  of  Mary  Pamela  Searle.'  And  her 
father's  name,  of  course,  was  .  .  ." 

".  .  .  Paunceforth,  since  you  know  it,  sir,  ...  of 
Briskham  Park,  Hampshire." 

"He  will  be  getting  an  old  man,"  said  his  Reverence. 

"Seventy- four  ...  or  five,"  the  stranger  responded, 
"...  and  very  feeble.  He  has  had  one  seizure  already, 
and  is  anxious  to  make  amends,  before  he  dies,  for  an  act 
of  early  severity.  At  one  stage  of  the  proceedings  there 
was  a  child  involved.  A  daughter.  Is  she  still  living? 
If  you  can  give  me  any  information  likely  to  lead  to  her 
recovery,  I  may  tell  you  that  expense  will  be  no  object  at 
all.  No  stone  is  to  be  left  unturned,  by  our  client's  in- 
structions, to  trace  matters  to  their  final  step.  And  I  may 
add  that  ...  as  this  is  now  the  last  surviving  branch  of 
our  client's  family  .  .  .  and  he  is  a  gentleman  of  con- 
siderable wealth  .  .  ." 

"Exactly,"  said  his  Reverence.  "I  think  it  will  not  be 
difficult  to  conclude  matters  to  your  client's  entire  satis- 
faction. His  granddaughter  has  been,  and  still  is,  under 
my  safe  care.  .  .  .  Just  come  along  with  me  as  far  as  the 
Vicarage.  There  are  a  few  things  there  in  my  possession. 
.  .  .  Beautiful!  beautiful!  Quite  an  Indian  summer 
we  're  having." 

30 


466  THE  POST-GIRL 

And  that  same  day,  before  dinner,  the  news  is  racing 
all  over  Ullbrig  that  Pam's  grandfather  had  sought  for 
her  and  found  her;  and  that  she  is  to  be  a  real  lady  at 
last,  and  ride  horses,  and  drive  carriages,  and  order  ser- 
vants of  her  own,  and  live  in  a  great  big  house  in  a  great 
big  park,  where  deer  are  grazing  and  peacocks  stalk  the 
terraces,  and  will  never  come  back  to  Ullbrig  any  more, 
but  give  them  all  the  go-by  now,  and  set  her  nose  up 
higher  than  ever;  and  the  Spawer  is  only  marrying  her 
for  her  money. 

Steggison  says  to  himself  with  a  Satanic  joy: 

"Noo  ah  s'll  get  a  chance  at  post-bag.  She  promised  me 
ah  sewd  'ave  fost  try  at  it  if  owt  'appened  'er.  Mah  wod ! 
Bud  ah  '11  gie  'em  James  Maskill  an'  all.  They  '11  'a  t'  run 
when  ah  call  of  'em— ne'er  mind  if  they  weean't!" 

And  James  Maskill  stands  forlornly  with  his  back 
propped  against  the  post-house  bricks,  and  a  heel  hitched 
up  to  the  wall  beneath  him,  and  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
and  his  mouth  screwed  to  a  spiritless  whistle  that  can't 
produce  the  ghost  of  a  sound;  staring  at  nothing,  and 
thinking  of  nothing;  and  feeling  nothing — for  life  in 
front  of  him  is  nothing  now,  and  he  would  n't  have  the 
heart  to  fetch  Dingwall  Jackson  his  promised  bat  across 
the  lug,  even  if  you  caught  him  and  held  his  head  up  for 
the  purpose. 

And  Emma  Morland  is  bursting  with  pride,  and  weep- 
ing with  the  misery  of  losing  Pam — for  this  fashionable 
interment  of  Pam  in  the  classic  vaults  of  High  Society 
fills  her  with  a  more  terrible  sense  of  their  severance  than 
a  little  green  grave  in  Ullbrig  churchyard. 

And  the  postmaster  makes  an  impressive  chief  mourner, 
standing  by  the  counter  with  set  face  and  lowered  eyes  as 


THE  POST- GIRL  467 

though  it  were  a  coffin,  and  telling  his  daughter,  when  she 
comes  hither  to  embarrass  him  with  her  demonstrations  of 
grief : 

"It  's  all  for  t'  best,  lass  no  doot.  We  s'll  larn  to  get 
ower  it  i'  time." 

And  Mrs.  Morland,  her  mingled  gladness  and  sorrow 
commingling  to  reminiscence,  tells,  through  fond  tears, 
how  Pam  did  this,  and  Pam  did  that;  and  how  she  Jd 
always  thought  of  others  before  herself;  and  what  a 
strange  sad  house  it  would  be  without  her — and  wept  her- 
self into  perspirations,  and  wiped  her  tears  and  her  steam- 
ing forehead  with  large  double  sweeps  of  her  apron.  And 
Ginger  went  off  his  food  again— for  though  she  'd  never 
been  his,  at  each  new  name  with  which  hers  was  coupled, 
he  felt  once  more  as  though  he  'd  just  lost  her. 

And  Pam  went  dancing  up  to  Cliff  Wrangham  that  day, 
hugging  his  Reverence's  arm — as  sad  as  any  of  them,  and 
so  joyful  that  it  seemed  not  earth  she  trod  on,  but  the  big 
round  prismatic  blown  bubble  of  a  dream,  shivering  warn- 
ingly,  all  ready  to  puff  into  nothing  and  let  her  down  into 
nowhere.  And  when  they  came  to  Dixon's,  Pam 
went  into  the  little  parlor,  and  looked  at  the  Spawer,  and 
said,  "Oh,  Morrie!"  in  a  doleful  voice  of  preparation. 
For,  to  tell  the  truth,  though  she  was  come  here  intended 
to  play  a  little  comedy  on  him,  with  a  triumphant  denoue- 
ment, her  own  conviction  in  things  actual  (including,  for 
the  time,  their  own  happiness)  had  been  so  surprisingly 
shaken  that,  despite  her  errand's  being  presumably  of 
gladness,  she  looked,  as  she  looked  at  him,  for  all  the 
world  as  though  she  had  seen  a  ghost. 

"Good  gracious,  darling !"  said  the  Spawer,  in  concern, 
when  he  saw  her.  "Whatever  's  been  happening  now  ?" 


468  THE  POST-GIRL 

"Oh,  Maurice!"  said  Pam  again,  trying  hard  to  win 
back  assurance  that  he  and  she  were  not  two  mere  unsub- 
stantial figments  of  somebody  else's  dream,  but  flesh  and 
blood,  and  dear  and  bond  to  each  other.  "I  've  something 
to  tell  you,  dear — I  mean,  to  ask  you,  dear.  Do  you  love 
me?" 

"Do  I  love  you?"  repeats  the  Spawer,  with  a  look  of 
incredulous  surprise,  and  a  tinge,  in  his  tones,  of  severity. 
"What  a  remarkable  question  to  ask  a  man— and  at  such 
short  notice!  Really,  Miss  Searle  ...  I  must  confess 
you  surprise  me." 

"Oh,  but  do  you,  do  you  ?"  begs  Pam. 

"Well,  it  's  dreadfully,  horribly  sudden,"  says  Maurice. 
"And  you  put  me  quite  in  a  flutter.  But  since  you  're 
rather  an  attractive  girl  .  .  .  well,  yes,  I  do." 

"Oh,  but  suppose  .  .  .  suppose  .  .  ."  says  Pam,  going 
on.  ... 

"Yes,  little  riddle-me-ree  ?" 

"Suppose  .  .  .  suppose  I  was  n't  what  you  've  always 
thought  me.  Suppose  it  were  found  that  ...  I  was  n't 
a  lady  at  all.  Suppose  I  was  somebody  altogether  dif- 
ferent from  what  Father  Mostyn  said  I  was." 

Sundry  speculative  shadows  rise  up  in  the  Spawer's 
mind,  but  he  is  not  dismayed,  and  feels  no  flinching. 

"Well?"  says  he  encouragingly.  "And  suppose  you 
were  ?" 

"Would  it  make  no  difference  ?"  Pam  asks  tremulously, 
it  must  be  confessed,  for  oh  .  .  .  if  now  it  should  ! 

"Darling,"  says  the  Spawer  firmly,  "not  the  least  little 
bit." 

Pam  wants  then  and  there  to  clasp  his  avowal  and  pro- 
claim her  mission.  Her  soul  has  scarcely  strength  for 


THE  POST- GIRL  469 

further  dissimulation,  but  for  the  full  crop  of  joy  that 
she  hopes  to  reap  in  the  end,  she  keeps  her  hand  to  the 
plough. 

"Would  you  want  to  marry  me  .  .  .  just  the  same?" 
she  asks. 

"More!"  says  Maurice  Ethelbert.  "A  hundred  times 
more." 

"Why  more  ?"  Pam  inquires  vaguely ;  her  curiosity  sud- 
denly fanned  to  seek  the  reason  of  this  strange  great  in- 
crease in  his  affection  for  her. 

"Because,"  the  Spawer  tells  her,  "the  less  you  are  to 
the  world,  dear,  the  more  you  must  be  to  me.  The  less 
claim  the  world  can  make  upon  you,  the  more  I  feel  I  've 
got  you  all  to  myself." 

"You  would  still  marry  me,  under  any  conditions?" 
persists  Pam. 

"Under  any  and  all." 

"And  you  won't  let  me  go?" 

"I  won't  let  you  go." 

"Whatever  people  say  ?" 

"Whatever  people  say." 

"You  '11  hold  me  as  tight  ...  as  you  held  me  when 
we  thought  we  were  going  to  die  ....  that  night." 

"Tighter,  darling,  tighter." 

"Even  if  ..." 

"If  what?" 

"...  I  should  turn  out  .  .  .  just  a  bit  of  a  lady, 
after  all,  dear?" 

The  Spawer  is  going  to  answer,  but  he  stops  suddenly, 
lifts  up  the  girl's  face,  and  looks  straight  into  her  eyes. 

"Pam !"  says  he. 

THE  END 


